So life goes, like a bizarre mirage.

The blue rose that sheds light, giving the thistle its being!

Together with the dogma of the murderous

burden, the sophism of Good and Reason!

What the hand grazed, by chance, has been grasped;

perfumes drifted, and among them the scent of

mold that halfway down the path has grown

on the withered apple tree of dead Illusion.

So life goes,

with the treacherous canticles of a shriveled bacchante.

Completely rattled, I push onward … onward,

growling my funeral march.

Walking at the feet of royal Brahacmanic elephants

and to the sordid buzzing of a mercurial boiling,

couples raise toasts sculpted in rock,

and forgotten twilights a cross to their lips.

…

So life goes, a vast orchestra of Sphinxes

belching out its funeral march into the Void.