The beat falters on the remaining seconds.
It is dictated by the blink enhanced
by intermittent signals, transmitted by the towers.
This is the wide-eyed nightfall
where callous words and concretized thoughts
are meld, sharpened and held
better than viruses, bombs or swords.
Intent becomes the vessel
and uncertainty becomes the trend.
Here is the womb
of step-brothers, half-sisters,
sons from divorce, daughters from incest,
(for this is where divorce and incest
are constructed and enforced)
of fathers who look after
and mothers who game and gather.
In this womb looms a brood
brooding and breeding
with each other,
begetting two fathers
or none at all.
This is the xenophobic twilight
when souls spew newly
reincarnated copies,
almost similar but not quite.
And this not-so-but-somehow
sows them:
environmentalists who smoke,
moralists who curse,
artists who destroy.
They are brought out just
to fill the space and to erase gaps out.
This is the misty but solvable times
of plain, lethargic convolutions.
The Spirit rethinks
of birthing new spirits,
for there are too many a flesh
splitting hybrids of itself.
The journey is a centripetal loop
of shying away
from the refrained drawbacks
and deaths of the day.
Re_
Randel Urbano