Being alive is burial procession.
A slow underground ooze,
slothfulness for the drifters of dreams
procure all tidings onto me.
If the dove flies with hesitation,
become the magma adoration
we consume in a grand feast.
The spectacle is the demon
trying to beat the heat.
Of course the progress
grooves ever slowers,
a neat kite holder is now a
soothsayer to say the least thoughts.
If it wasn't existentialism, then
I wouldn't know what was.