The Hierophant’s red suit
is stained with blue blood.
In the halls, it’s a battlefield.
A ship in hyperspace only to itself;
the ocean’s crystalline torrent,
that cannot find anything but luminescent emptiness.
Ideas are time-travelling glaciers. The Carrion Conserver,
their Dao socket stuffed with fish bait thawed as blindness.
That Turkey Vulture’s true as it smells; no eye’s That way.
Ideas only stay ideas while they’re still frozen.
They bring out lawyers and rarely nurses.
They bring out guns, not the china plates.
If it takes nuance, it melts.
If it takes empathy, they’re eccentric.
Our Professor has no wings
And no nose.
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