In this modern
day, things don't
fall apart, they
hang
together
mercilessly;
and gradually, ritual
becomes
the battleground.
Dead
and putrefactive words
on a sacrificial page
are now, each
day,
left out—bloody charity
for this demon,
this fierce,
infernal dragon—a serpent
whose alluring and
hypnotic, slithering name
isn't Duty, but
Consistency.
And every night he
crawls out,
and stretches
himself out
into this
ruthlessly straight and
infinitely
long line—which I,
in lieu of
railing against,
must go on
toeing—
just to pass
the time.
