From your death, Adam,
the deaths: nuggets lying
in the river of wisdom,
or gold leaf dust.
Like memories in the unconscious,
to the incandescent magma
of ancestral deaths,
the most recent one fuses.

Scruple
etches structures
into the alabaster of imagination,
and weaves the scarlet threads of the curtain
beyond which we are not allowed to peek.

No swaddling,
but straight into a corroded armor,
to be filled with deeds
etched by the Devil's engraver.
Thoughts that offend
grow out of proportion,
like stalactites
fed by infected drops
on walls of decay.
An incessant interference
dissolves continuity.

Experts of life for life.

We stand, stunned,
spectators of the Void.
Then, the echo of inane chatter
bounces, alien, off the walls
that shield a wealth.
But it's always confusion
that plants the flag of its arrogance
on the scorched desert of uncertainty.
And hope only serves to prostrate.

In the pauses of life,
you reflect on life.
And like insects with poisoned stingers,
thoughts and people pierce you.

Two castles,
with drawbridges always down
over moats of Nothing.