Flirt

On webs and moldy draw, these visions lift. A thing to flirt, a Thing of dirt. Waxing down after foot, creeped. Between your neck and that cold that cracks, this Thing exists behind veiled threats, to form your blur and spoil our bones…snapped…on distance it endures.

From wings of sleep, it floats. Your eyes are still…there.

This Thing. This ghost.

Crumbed

However.

That’s how time clicks down to teeth, contrapt. A steep to tick and wriggled loose, sent to spill, and kept…yet separate? As plan unfolds for march, for mile.

Your weird can’t breathe a second chance.

And that’s just the way it is…crumbed.

However.

Maze

These certain things exist upon secret maze and split. These certain things revolve (around a round) to test resolve of sand and fog. To sink a wave and offer oar. Align in the sand. Drawn to meet and bleached.

Fallen and fair, a haze of darting shine, spinning and spinning. A shape (a mold). A shape appears from not and fades to naught, yet still a shape.

And for and from these things exist.

And for and from the fog persists.