Spectate the spasmodic

gasps for life 

of an episodic

unreality, the kind

that offers elixirs

in exchange for 

souls on the precipice, 

without an oar, 

ready to surrender

their mores, so long as

Horus agrees to bless

a sliver more 

of their voyage, 

while they stay blind

to his eye that glints 

the truth: that the boon

is merely pro tempore, 

probably not worth

a sacrifice of integrity.