There is no beauty in this inner garden I built for myself.
Its marble floors reek of hospital disinfectant
And filtered air squeaks against my crumbling rubble-feet.

There is no beauty in this blue house I have painted.
Fly-swarmed carcases lie at its doorsteps,
Stomping on each other’s staircase skulls, battling their way to the door.

There is no beauty in the summer breeze I have been yearning,
When it carries with it mustard gas
And a love letter from Armageddon, in yearning for me.

There is no beauty in blind citadels.
There is no beauty in lifeless monuments.
There is no beauty in a signal,
When it has been lost to the noise.