i swore this night would be the last
and as all clocks tick towards finality
enters the approaching doom
jagged shadows—
spiralling notation.
pilose and beckoning,
as the burbling temptation stains
the soft dress of a bantling star

and my limb, verbose, rises
en-pained and un-sought, a mind
which scrapes pigment to tear out
a soul's sliver
of cognition, yet fumbles
and the pattern rests still;
still, only in the eye