From Death's point of view

the living are but shadows

of unreality

speaking the language of dreams

inside a shining, yelling, joking,

weeping, bleeding, coughing,

fucking

circus bubble

of insignificant extent and duration

adrift in the galactic night:

wasted, stretchy beings,

seaweed wavy

beyond the filters of time

like the monochrome cast

in a Perry Mason court case

of the 1950s

played out through a 27" Macintosh

of 2024