Come to feed, you paper wolves.

And fill the trees. And split this ground.

Your breath, your wool. Your heavy hearts.

From crumpled moons.

The midnight sounds.

My work, he screamed, stuck beneath piano keys.

A lullaby.

A soft, good night.

A dream.

A dream.

Oh, fallen words.

Have come to death? A line. A box.

Oh, mirror cracked. Connect the…

Oh, mystery.

Obliterate.

Unsaid. A drift, a blaze.

For tides to turn and come around, a hundred years, a hundred years.

To deep, it says, to deep.

For stars reflect this whispered breath, and light turns ink and sinks and sinks.

To deep, it says, to deep.

This night, this woe.

Row, it says, and row and row.

This miracle of graves, this rift of sunken hearts.

This thin line may…

-dis-con-nect-

…this beat, this cold held hand, this walk along the beach…my love.

As leaves collect and sit and sift down grains and wind through blades can cut your cheek.

The end just has to be.

For moon’s deep set and stairs descent. These things are drilled to fabric and sunken dust, when and where the sky looks bare, forever there and there and theirs.

And shifting red for all to sea.

And shifting red for poetry.

Of earned remarks, these tracks. Too long to line and steal for thieves, all (but) gone.

Trailed to setting sun…and forks and knives that stab. Consumed.

And slipped, to be.

For gone.

Conclusion.

This dust. Drifts of dust and lit up stuff, webbed. However tiny, diminished.  It cannot be, yet breathe we must and turn and turned to rust. That burd can float, can sink like once. The end is slip, is dust.

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.

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.