Pins fall from the depths of thought
left to dry upon the wall leaving
traces of gaiety and marvel to wither.
The slow beat of lids seems to lull
the heart to sleep about the
confines of its corridor.
Meanwhile definity patterns tapestries
as reason swallows footsteps
in their hollow rhythm.
Relinquished by breath memories
float and evaporate,
glorified in their own right
to be about their kind revealing
solitude in humble nature.
All the while condensation crawls upon
the eyes in reminiscent motions
calling secrets to the light.
These vigilantes of lobed plains
bewildering ideals and observation,
these traitors of a bottled kingdom;
here they rest upon the hills of rose
refracting all that is innocence in its lonesome.
