This photograph

marks the epitaph

of all that ever was sane.

It was the night,

in shrieking plight,

that a collective life was maimed.

In bottles came reparations

for the war they waged against our imaginations

we inherited them, as we had to.

Then, we were vindictive

and, more than anything, 

we showed it through one massive, crashing, orchstrated performance

comedy and tragedy.

In swirling sequences passed

fierce rituals, breeding commune and secret

the most glorious creations of ours,

we thought, as they pounded through our minds

still in flux.

Our once rich, juicy particles

the makeup of our iridescent, orange skin

have shattered

and now, we are made of

the ancient remnants of

dabbling in

our holy capsules and liquids.

They are static,

We are passive.

In hollow rooms

we pass days

unbeknownst to ourselves

And our cause remains unknown to us

And we remain unknown to ourselves.

The last memory we can recall,

lucid and viscous,

is the fervent colour;

the blind grappling

the flaming need to diverge

in evidence in the 

instant 

photograph.