gravity of indited life

where does the russian wander now?
is the illustrated man still alive?
what happened to the cat in the rain?
who keeps an eye on what writer creates?

a hoax, the act of reading is,
full of trickery, debauchery and untruth.
it tells the one with the mind,
that hers is the word of God;

unluckily, it belongs to the fraud:
first, he sets the rules,
sometimes, resurrects the dead,
yet always, brings them death,
as is his wish.

the fraud rules supreme, ever,
plainly, the minded-one is not so cle'er.
with the carcasses of the unsung past,
the two trouble-makers, they toyed, together.

yet the day will come for the dead
whom they left in their lettered abyss,
then the pages will choke them with their calcified limbs,
saying: will we come to life only when you set eyes on us?

no! no! there is no triad!
i will not share their sins, myriad!
i did not create anyone to eternally wander,
nor did i kill for my own blunder.

but the dead did not listen to the beggary:
the russian scholar broke her neck.
the illustrated man stabbed him at the back.
and the cat in the rain clawed out my eyes, without leaving a fleck.

now, these are the lines flowing out my hands,
draining my blind sockets, in deceased lands;
now, begins, the gathering,
and one of my associates, whispers, unceasing:

in your mind,
in your mind,
it all goes down,
in your mind.