But like infection is the petty thought: it creeps and hides, and wants to be nowhere–until the whole body is decayed and withered by the petty infection… Thus spoke Zarathustra.
Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
as if a hundred little fish in the sky are singing
radio waves ringing to keep anxious minds afloat
upon petty tunes popular popping corks in the ocean
pretending to support those wounded mental bones
and by some strange magic that driftwood survives
without fear, without awe, without wondering why
for death’s embrace is their most willing surrender
flowing in a sea of living love they can’t remember.