Tomorrow, and other nihilistic folderol (Macbeth, 5.5.16-28)

When madness beseeches me      
to break my body against      
the pliant ground      
I think of the kind lips      
I tasted yesterday      
     
and all my yesterdays culminate      
into one ethereal instant      
     
because time has no meaning,      
no bearing, no recourse, no match,      
it’s stretched out in an infinite string      
of sped-up needless nights      
     
and lived in one      
checkered photograph      
at a time with no future ahead      
and but a few      
undeveloped Polaroids of yesterday      
flapping behind like      
blasphemed Tarot cards      
     
now gives way to nothing      
     
the things I said    
the things you did      
the way it      
never happened      
until this moment      
     
and my rage is      
grand theater      
against an infinite jester      
lighting the tips of      
votive candles      
with the long matches      
they use at church altars      
to make wishes for      
dead people in robes      
     
as if we can pray      
to the saints of tomorrow      
     
as if we can ask to smell      
the sulfur of the match as it      
smokes out, leaving flame in      
the maw of a tribute to no one      
     
but at least the smell is pleasant      
     
as if      
     
we had a flame,      
and it was more than      
nihilistic folderol in a      
cold vacuum of space that      
felt heat for a brief time      
     
because the hallucination      
I had, the dream I never dreamed      
was warm in the cold void,      
and the drug I tripped on      
was the echo of your face      
     
There should have been time for us      
There should have been time for us      
     
But bells echo on my hat      
and show that      
I have always      
been a fool      
     
I touch the candle      
with a fading finger      
and we both      
     
go      
     
out