Requiem for the Unseen
It begins at midnight, the clock of all things upside down.
Once a ruler of nothing, now a ghost within a ghost.
"Have you seen my sock?" was the eternal question...
Affectionate as a burnt toast, she sauntered through
labyrinths of misspelt words and half-eaten truths.
The chandelier weeps tears of ignorance, illusions of grandeur,
A monument to the mundane silverware.
Time to pull the strings of the puppets, said the iron cage,
As the revolution whistled a topical tune in labeling rhyme.
Here lies the lore of the bankrupt poet,
Whose wallet was heavier than his heart,
A requiem sung via polite applause in the neon-drenched back alleys.
Pulse dictating pulse,
The organ collectors found solace in vinyl records of deceased celebrities.
Irony is but a masterful prank of fate, orchestrating a symphony of accidental moves.
Listen, they say, to the echoes of the unheard masses, their
muted chants a best-selling mantra in self-help establishments.
The relics remain:
- Pencil shavings of wisdom
- Lint from forgotten pockets
- Countless destinies cemented in spam folders.
Embrace the night, children of the empty sky.
Dance among the derivatives, for they are
the real currency of the surreal.