does the apathy translate?

the wanton wanderlust trusted
to lead,
to shepherd a dying empty me
out of the desert in my blood,
is more yours than mine I find
when the violence of mind
is finally transmuted into the
kind of silence that usually
follows the snapping of
violin strings.

you were always symphony halls
hanging framed in monochrome,
because someone wanted you replaced.

I feel like we all are, though.

is that even apathy?

only the skies are ever replaced.
Zarathustra was overbriefed
as always.
it makes me want a doomsday,
a noose swing,
a new face.

this spinning plate thing
is not as lucrative as I had thought
it would be.
still no worse than I was
so that is something.

urtext purge staccato,
you know what I'm saying.
automatic,
learned,
purchased;
below, suddenly cutting in;
call it a symptom of sample culture.

that sibilance is sickening,
no vultures.
deranged,
no victims though.
I hate it.
we all do.
I love that.
infamy, intimacy;
something came between us.

that is why I never unpack.
you should try to.