Siva in rags

we can't help the dead elephants alleygates
can't solve the mystery of their
burial...
can't even step closer
to their wedding
voodoo
where dice are of ivory cheektears
collected as precious milk babies
while incense draws salvation
around crushed naked foreheads

look how they gather, these mighty fantoms...
if people were so majestic...

ah, but we prefer solitaire
in our dying
hosannah honeypots
choosing wrong wombs
of delivery...

how can we balance the elephant's weight
with a single
butterfly breath of soulpalace?
that's all the weaponry at hand...
such fragile canvas
of our fragmented genius
featherweighted arms of possession...

we are Siva in ruin
temples in collision
skulls of smog policemen

how can we stand against
their red lights of channeling
with our tiny white neons of alpha connective
experiences laughable...

and force our pale reminders
to live again
as burial's swirling reflections

we are all Siva in rags
we are all Siva
we are all
we are
we...

there is no one inside but the wind...