closing

the illusion of rebellion is fraught with reality, thoughts, memories of you and me.

what is it to be whole?

to don midnight with nothing on your sleeves
but riddles on your lips,
murmured with razor-rage
because pain is worthy of speech
but only in pure, sweet darkness
where there are no shadows

is a fragile beast
ready to climb down the silent shadows like vines
spread out against
all odds

this thought

it’s minor, but so alive, this thought:
a thread whistling against the sinking leaves
weaving a cloud for a bit of rain
this thought