Shiny jail, spotted by glamour's sequins,

You dim your reality under gory gauze;

Beneath them, tragic wounds bare

Your previous masks and resurface 

Obloquy, injustices and human pain. 

Though the blood gush irrepressibly, 

A blind man feels the hack's ache but not 

The cause of it, and never will he try 

To change his condition because he's 

Too much engaged to steer a greenish

Prow made of damn papers. 

This pendulum, this murderous hourglass, evokes

Dreamlike ghosts, similar to human entity - maybe us -,

Which sleepy walk towards the Unknown: O dreadful 

Majesty, reckless pecuniary hubris, as black hole over us

You engulf us through your immense power; and yet 

Pseudo-thinking animals we are but gullibly we hide 

Ourselves under the haphazard vestiges. Maybe luck?

However a complaisant Death which enchants us with

Poignant manners and events! 

A hideous Hand, a stinging immanent force, squelches 

The will and overwhelms - as the firmament for Atlas - 

Our consciousness with garish grant. There, where two

Oceans lave different cliffs of the same land, where

Matter becomes essence and life's cause, that fester 

Manifests his nauseating derivation. Men's sore, 

Mankind's nuisance, as the Gods's wrath that befalls us

Other can't we do expect comply, can we?

Lurid jail, twisted perversion, not yet!

You must grow more, and more again

To be an enormous unmovable plague. 

Grim expression of a mortal life, flagitious 

Flout labelled by charming mood and faces,

Featherless souls's villainous Holocaust,

Tell us why! 

We are all automatons, grovelling and abject 

Human's imago - as well as a bark could be

Painful weakness's figure -, and, as throngs

Of mislaid infants, we seek oblivion

Misapprehending it for joy. Damned sloths!

O mighty and fatigued, fundamental oxymoron,

God, ask us what you scavenge. 

Bid me, O crippled existence, how a fleeting and

Heavy plutocracy would have subdued us: the choice's

Possibility became a linearly dependent life's condition

And nothing else could enrich our will except the greed,

Unique boldness of a greenish Humanity. 

As you will, woebegone and bipedal mass of execrable

Slaves: absolutely confident onto a sure world, sure as

Could be reliable a Sun that wanes to East, you - unworthy 

Cancer of a painful comedy - supervise onto a poor 

Consciousness, delayed between logical jokes and

Terrible abysses. 

©Motes of Dust, Matteo Bona: ogni violazione della proprietà intellettuale verrà perseguita legalmente.