I Grasp the Smoke of a Decaying Past

I grasp the smoke of a decaying past,
And blacken my hands with the soot
Of a decaying present.

I punch the walls of tradition,
And bloody my hands with the sanguine
Of a crumbling future.

I bang my head on the tables of virtue,
And lighten my head with the hysteria
Of unanswerable questions.

I stroke the soft fur of beauty,
And prick my hand on the spiky coat
Of a petrifying splendor.

I touch the glow of a wish,
And burn my hands on the white-hot light bulb
Of past disappointments.

I open a scripture of augurs,
And leaf through the dusty pages
Of inane follies.

I touch the works of man,
And lament the miserable state
Of an irreversible condition.