At the start of the week he began to become ethereal
things slipping through his incorporeal hands
visions vanishing with the apparition of sunlight
cursed to observe the hidden carnival of colours
and spirits dancing around us, unfettered by mortal forms or concerns
woven from light and shadow and silence they move without volition
but rather following memory like an old goat track through the scrub
drawn by lines, hooks, nets of knotted destiny, a finely woven fate
that draws closer the more one tries to break free.
The circle is complete, the silence is golden, the crowd
moves with the vibrancy of this invisible party, twirling
floral-print parasols resolving into garden beds and dead
heads filled with aching eyes and repressed regret.
This is a test. Proceed with caution, look back with regret
explode your head like a paint bomb glitter bag dust storm
settle in the petals and relieved among the fallen leaves
a crackling blanket of brown and dirty lime embracing
his leaden limbs even as his consciousness bleeds out
through every hole in his head, his heart
and his rotten wormwood soul.