Upon polished pavements, the soul leaks,
trickling ironies rich,
like caramel on plump apples—marred with madness, but
splendid nonetheless. Listen—do you hear it?
The symphony of sarcastic angels,
their trumpets fashioned from the finest grievances.
"Life," they say, "is a board game compromised by random eloquence and ridiculous dice." Yet who among us reads the rules? The player wins nothing, loses nothing, merely collects murmurs in a solitary box. Open it not, for its contents are as mundane as a puddle reflecting dismal clouds.
In cafes adorned with absent glances,
every latte whispering tales of betrayal,
our hero sits, clad in irony.
Each sip a rebellion, each foam a manifesto—
the struggle against flavorlessness documented in
sips of pretentious cinnamon.
Cycles churn, seasons sigh,
mundane alliterations reside
in this tactile harmony of crushed aspirations.
Yet beneath words,
lies a shimmer—a deception, a hope, a blasphemy:
Serenade to Schism
beckons, or perhaps
the Banquet of Faith
will suffice.