Casket Masquerade

The Last Star of Amastris

We are the phantom limb of some once grand collective;
so full of holes, run through from a distance.
Uniform and prism minded; vagrant eyed.
From this cloud we stretch out, though we are vacant.

Out here, on some misspent horizon,
there is naught left but our indecipherable shape.

You think you’re weary now, but it’s worse when you get there.
So shoulder your share of the cold, and shake off the distance.
From where we are, you are vile and electric.
I cannot fathom the taste in your mouth.

Once more, after grave invitation,
stoned and bereft, we enter into a hell of a state.

We pour so freely now, into this lachrymal vase,
that our sense is one of such impediment and ruin.
We retch, but barely can we taste it;
ourselves turn’t little more than fleshed, stodgy rheums.

Still there are some…
Still there are those…
Still we are numb…
So still in our holes…

We soar through countless phases of elations;
honed and well dressed for the occasion.
We make light of our sedation
and our need to feel erased.
Now we plummet, scale, and haunt,
then tear apart the wares and wants,
turning what they wear and flaunt
into our casket masquerade.