I cover the windows and wonder, In murky whispers, If all ceases to exist
Beyond these abstractions I weave
in daydreams scribbled on paper,
Beauty preserved in pristine fiction
as I trace old shadows on new walls.
For does my tenderness contort upon release,
Weigh heavy upon the ears of each muse,
Drawing suspicion with unveiled words,
Like an open door to an empty core.
There is much ache I spill to the ground,
By my own hand in its confusion,
Leaning on false walls of fortitude,
Deducing what love is not.
Where lies the art to burst apart...
With tendons too tired to move
From stitches sewn so long ago
and a yearning to be known.