A raindrop quivers, convinced it commands the ocean,
its tremor drowned before it even touches the tide.
A shadow leans on the sun,
pressing against heat that will not yield,
its edges dissolving into nothing.
A pawn staggers toward a crown
on a board abandoned by the game itself,
sweating in theaters built for ghosts,
where applause is a memory no one carries anymore.
Walls crack like gaping teeth,
temples and thrones gape in silence they never asked to be filled.
Decimals gnaw at infinity,
cough echoes in corridors that forgot their names,
scripts abandoned mid-breath.
A fly hums against stained glass,
wings slicing light it cannot bend.
A candle flickers,
wavering like a breath that never belonged.
Every delusion strains and snaps,
every crown collapses to ash,
every paper crumbles to dust,
and dust does not mourn.
Bones ache under gravity’s indifference,
skin wilts under heat that doesn’t notice,
blood pulses to a silence that outlives life.
To think you,
a fleck of dust
on the smallest grain
in the deserts of time,
to think you matter,
you’d have to be clinically delusional
and anatomically god,
which is a rather polite way
of saying: you're the farce you fear,
Dear Humanity.
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