The rush, just on feel.
A touch.
The days too long, irresistible.
sound that protrudes.
The belt that fastens
blinds that drop
closing in,
fast.
And wishing for who,
the wires that run through,
walls thick, blue.
Resting place, sheets.
Eyes closed, peace.
But for one solemn piece, my
box incomplete.
The book that reads PSALMS twenty three, 23.
'yea, tho i walk through the valley of the shadow of death'
My box, me, complete.
