You wallow in your cocoon
a musky scarlet tongue...

Heroic leaves mourn with my skin
as we both wrinkle past the fabrics of time...

I enter the confessional
longing for repentance...

I take a photograph of the unwritten horizon,
waiting for golden notes to flutter...

9:41
Night is stranded...

Whitespire's low canopy hung off long hand...
while the sour birch prostrated before your beady...

The surreal embers
glow within us...

I cut my sorrow open
and let the black glass...

She posed like a crow
darkly vulnerable yet...

Pump my heart into an underground river
where each molten stone and message...

They didn't create
perfect...

Quiet curtains pick up their tails,
leaving toward Arctic drift...