Banal brooks hunt restless hearts
For game of vultures and bats
The lovers are torn apart
By the incoherence of their scars

The images are not worth waiting for
They blur not for the sake of art but for the value they are sold
What do I say to my lover on Wednesdays
Where the sky doesn’t beg for a dirge
Nights when she raises her glass to groom and bride
To tells uninteresting lies
Nights when maggots feed on rotting flesh only to sate their hunger