centuries (older)

yes, i have written for the centuries,
their eyes so enclosed,
i have seen, their bodies warp
in unending fashion
that coil promoting
those blackened stars
their beams fuzzy
in the absence.
writing for all times,
a lonely drawl
sickeningly ironic
a very convenient
image to prove.
a hallucination
to which had
no barrier.
i have drunken the poison,
yes, 'the devil doth offer'd'
he has sat with his proposition
along porcelain tile
leather nests
spinning on their axis
with a certain inquisition,
a beckoning, 'broken or filled,
broken or filled!'
a time passes
everything
disappears
transience ensues
a helplessness
inevitable.