All Truth Is Crooked

The ones who think in eternity
Are snails
Creeping on razors of bone
We slice ourselves upon every step
Slowly into a fraction of our being
Everything straight, lies
And therein lies
The whole of man’s plight
Crawling insects
Gnawing on the insides of a branch
Hollow
Just to find the meaning
In between the panels
That enclose the earth
Coating the sun
With the slime of vanity
By which our eyelids
Are sewn together
With threads of iron
We
The ones who think in eternity
We walk a straight line
Ours is a silence without excuse
Without palliation
Where we walk, there are thorns
Where we look, there are walls