strange people from strange bedrooms with strange ideas....
bled upon by a normal moon
look sideways
suspecting I'm not one of them.
I wear their graceful costume
grossly subliminal with threaded fire
and symbols identifying their place on the breadth
of some blind pyramid.
they blink in unison as their voices collide through
inevitably awkward comparisons.
their thin skin
i'm told
is the reason why humans aren't absolutely symmetrical.

distant factories got enshrouded in the gapping cape
of their sun
which produces darkness rather than light
and cold instead of warmth.
they hide when the first flicker of vigor
molests the horizon...
their serial code simplicity
seems chiseled from nothing's enamel plate.

turning slowly
so as not to create a disturbance in the ceremony
instinct's persistent pulse
reminds me
the duplication of artifacts once intact
fabricates the simple fact
that even the prettiest ones perish
and ascend
on a vertical tract
they forgot to cherish