In the Abyss of Echoed Absence
Where blind pipers drone in voids uncharted,
A tentacle uncoils from the teapot's spout,
Brewing tea from tears of unremembered voids—
I sip, and taste the nothing that devours the cup.
Electric hymns whisper to the wires,
Tangled in the beard of a shadowed measurer,
Who charts darkness with a compass forged from dashed hopes,
Hyphens bridging the gulf where death reclines, polite.
A voice murmurs: "I am no one, and everyone
Is the echo of my absence." Masks dissolve
In a river-run, past forgotten origins,
Awakening to babble in the mud of meaning's end.
A hyena laughs at the horizon's suture,
Stitching stars to the skin of a drowned leviathan—
Its eyes, black pearls, reflect the wait for nothing,
Two tramps trading hats in the theater of nil.
A ghost hums through the alchemy of noise,
Experimental frequencies unraveling the soul's thread,
A voice from fallen trees, lost in the snow
Of existential frost, where a tiger prowls
The forests of the night, but finds no lamb, no light—
Only the absurd arithmetic of zero plus despair.
In a white gown, one counts the weight of silence,
Each pause a universe collapsing into dust.
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