We are mythical, and catastrophic;
Like great holographic serpents,
We rise over circles and cities,
Our sightless eyes cast celestial beams,
Lingering and dwindling across
Those seraphically skinned ones,
To see them scurry as whelks into their shells.

And from our insides,
We inhale and congest and burn up
The sporadic love they make,
That they refuse to give selflessly,
But must emit to exist.

Luminous kaleidoscopic spheres,
Come like thistledown in a gale,
To fuse with our daedalian minds
And remake peace, life, air.