dead fire falls from
the skeleton bone finger
of a charred match and i
warned them that one day
the filtered reality of their
lives would crumble and collapse
around them in a roar of
static and white noise.
the spiders are already weaving
their silk string webs and
knitting into the careful folds
the folorn memories of a
folorn society fallen from grace.
(but the question remains
what grace is bestowed upon
dirty whores and rapists?)