There are evenings
Without angels
That burn with the feeling
Of human pain
You know what it brings
A voluptuousness
Of poetry in lunatics
An eternal orchestra
Of spirits gone unrealized
Broken dreams, unfashionable
Alienation and furious sub-selves
Sad men made angels of the sun
And the moon became
Our attendant ghost
Of the Sea and the mortals pain
So very brief, but not as
Brief as our love
Before AI we had no memory
Only a little advice from
Half-hearted parents
The antiquest of society
An accord of repetitions
Blunt and dull and flashing
For something new
That never seemed to come
A future of pointed night
That never burst properly.
Wuji Seshat 