In the drawer beside my bed
there lies a graveyard
where scribbles cut to ribbons
rot in literary purgatory.

Discontinued timelines
suspended in the could-have-been,
you know, that awkward space between the realms of possibilities?
Civilisations falling into disrepair,
starved of vision,
endless streams of thought tricking into discontinuation.

It's all in the drawer beside my bed,
beside my head,
that knitted them together
and in the same breath, tore them apart.