Superartificial, there is nothing
you can do to realize yourself. Here is
home, where you're always just another
face in the crowd. Back and forth in
tides, gravity points emotion down.

Daylight is dull, life by your cardboard sun,
routine is everything - no variation for these
robotic dreams. Everyday the same as yesterday,
somehow in caution you've managed to drown.

So vital but so gone, detached you thought has
wrought what's free. In a world of your own, but
even the words are wrinkled, and still can't see.

I wished to lend my hand,
redress your foregone smile,
rally the stockpiled memories
prodding at former reality - now that you've wandered
off into extremities.

But by some means the distance in the iris of
your eye stubbornly survives. No matter the
point behind the dispatch, your unzipped coma
knows no end. Walking, breathing, speaking in
senseless resonance - there is no heart behind
what's beating.

Forthwith I mason the gravestone, labeling
the lapse in our lives - undone we've come, and
so you decay
in a cardboard cemetery
by your cardboard sun.