if a planet explodes and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

creatures of doubt trade time with creatures of instinct

passing it between themselves in a crowd as one passes out drinks

they make idle chatter, about which of we knows better, the ones who act or think?

feathered beasts stroll the promenade, making passes at each other,

smirking laughing, looking downwards from the gallery

among each and every there are bodies, whose hands and minds have formed

tunnels of death, among the hesitators there are detractors

their calling is bloodless vivisection, and they wield questions like a weapon

unmaking nature's naked truths in favor of dull domestication

the animals applaud their failures with morbid fascination, they watch them consume

kill, steal, wreck, and with bitten nailbeds they stare with blown up eyes

and write and write and write all about them 

birds such as we report our findings to a hanged god

whose body litters the far reaches of space, it is gathering dust, and somehow moss

and it hears nothing, there are not even echoes in this place