Piles of corpses drift along the interstate of tomorrow with dreams of walls and boxes  
    and Infinity,  
Promises of desolation hide behind a creeping sense of fulfillment  
    nailed together on the ashes of rebirth,   
Gleaming statues rotten to the core by the craftsman's hunger and boredom,  
Wheels and contraptions alluding to the hill beyond all hills
    and the peak of salvation, 
Where they sing songs of delusion and hunger and death and hope, 
And they reflect down upon the virginal shores of Valhalla or Nirvana
    or further elsewhere,
And they scream inside their rotting heads a dream corroded by the eyes of men,
Graphite stained tongues and knuckles peer through the gasping crowds of faceless bones, 
The plundering of innocence long forgotten by the cocks of the alluring
    and they themselves alluding to the tragedy of man,
And in the smoke gassed boxes of their lives the wretched dreaming skeletons
    slip down the gasping hole of eternity, 
A thundering and echoing idea stuffed away beneath the shit of yesteryear,
And laughter emits itself form sewer holes and drifts upwards
    grazing the nebulous void above,
Where golden possibilities rust within an ushering scream foretold from birth, 
And blind men walk and cough and stand and weep below a single light, 
And eyes peer down Mainstreet and mansions creak beneath themselves,
And the noxious smell of empty promises unshed under the sight of the storm,
And indulgently crafted worlds crumble from the selfish gaze of God and 
    other gods alike, 
Whose breath radiates and illuminates foretold realities and more to come, 
Whose tongue shifts the foundation of the flickering impression 
    of the unreflecting hope of men and garbage trucks akin,
Whose sight burns through solid wall and mountain and sea, 
Eyes cast towards the Heavens below with the darkness of infinity 
    illuminating vaguely downwards, 
Where beggars bow towards the cracks in the pavement and shout warnings
    to the worms and dirt around them,
Castles built from paper and ink, from flesh and blood, with lust and confusion,
Corroding crowds of desolates and other gods and goddesses,
Kneeled before the ticking hand of a broken watch,
Waiting for the crumbling of consciousness and welcoming forthcoming solitude,
And whimpering rats scatter across subway tracks and hurry to the steel above 
    and the beautiful irony of endless salvation, 
While dreams drown among the sewage and are hung high to dry on highway billboards
    alongside other howls radiating destitution, 
And the drunken taste of further havens drift on the end of another cloud of smoke,
And the pestering permanence of self beats beneath flesh and blood and bone,
And eyes peer questioning the sanity of mirror surfaces,
       reflections refracted and reformed under the 
    steel gaze of films and rotting books,
Whose words echo silently from skull to skull and promise clear directions to 
    the shores of past heavens. 

Gerard D’Albon is a second year illustration major at SVA/ starving artist and science/ philosophy enthusiast residing in Brooklyn. He’s currently working on expanding his artistic potential and capabilities while engaged in developing a portfolio of work. Check out his art at gerarddalbon.tumblr.com.