Come with me down to the depths

Down to places you'll never forget:

Down where the good are always struck dumb

Down in their graves, down in their mounds,

Where all that it takes for evil to swell,

Is for the good to remain silent, as hell.

This gap is a canyon, unimpeachable cliffs,

Between the airy nothing of words that exist

in the brain and the thud of unalloyed experience

In which ripples of consequence wriggle, hide from the truth

There's always a smattering of something left loose

Outside of the cerebral cortex

where the sign is a wan reflection of the signified,

The pale lady of romance who lied when she said

Signs point to the wild marshes of ambiguity instead, 

It is the rhythm of the words which reveal

The staccato rhythms of the brain: where nothing is the same.

The soul is the ghost trapped in this dying machine,

We are hooked in memory, and if bounded by the brain,

We live out our lives, alone and in vain.