Tragedies you create are similar
to butterflies and fireflies

but we consume air silently
cleanse ears and finish

you squander ominous sounds
on us, squash words with noise

the necessity of becoming sad
now taints our wings too

but under a vague hubris
you colonize our shrubs

blemish our romance
of wandering pools

ravens and vultures attend
your screeching consequences

under masks made of fragments
isn’t it embarrassing

trapped between so much,
and yet denied of any ending.