8 ’til midnight

Run outside, you’re dying anyhow
tear your muscles from the back of the apparent hand
when you’re staring at the sun, it’s hard to flinch

Your dancing god will smite everything
and the jewels will cut your feet
as you stride across the floor

strewn with the blood of love and hate

strewn worse yet with the glance of apathy

Ouroboros of well-planned mediocrity

and look now, it’s midnight.