Illogical pit stops
Waste deep in the forest
Infecting the shrine zone
Project our dark skies.
While under the curtain,
Where nothing is certain,
When staring at shark eyes,
The festival dies.
There’s no calibration
Or central location.
The cards are now telling a lie.
The wailing wind sings.
We’re out on the wings
Of these things we know
Never can fly.
And they tilt toward goodbye.