The iris was the first to die
Among things so lovely as to be stopped upon
As ponderous senses make it
And barely a note hissed to a tune written of a silent
stringless cello
Its gaping funnel a foggin lense
Which sees all but nothing
Within a plastic metal globe through a spiraling
Black cylinder
Along black waves on crushing
Rocks carved unpon cliffs
Which have seen the greats depths
Of eternity
When it was that all of sense and
nothingness met upon the shores
of great and grandiose simplicity
the iris was the first to die
and with it the worlds of sanity
