A Lament - Wreck and Reference

Breaking up in tiny rooms

Suckling on the teat of space

In lucid fields I’ve come to pass

In the bottle I do see his face

Mother, have we come to terms

When our insides become unlaced

Knowing that it’ll come to this

The absolute nothing black of space

Bloody trips in all the world

Walled up here like there’s a race

Do walls mean we have mottled hearts?

Our will continues on the rays

Planets always moving out

Spreading at a steady pace

Spinoza, I’m sorry, when fission stands

There won’t be god, just blacker space