They used to enable my feeding
always craving, always eating,
a feel of a rhythm of a beating
in turn —
what a beautiful evening.

Thieving to many,
surviving on empty,
while refill never works
always spilling, always work,
never filling.

Enough necks to chop off
with the wind at my back;
cut one down, a couple grow
an evergreen glow
that barely shows
without the night
that surrounds and gnarls
at the light within these walls,
hollow with remorse,
a fleeting choice.

Sensory high of olo and indigo,
but still faded like a ghost —
focusing on touch
but can't blend through to the other side.

Like things sourced and not spoken or cut,
ethically stuck in mind,
vacancy off.

Things dwell in that deep blue well.
Sonnets of blackbirds sing while in paradise —
not so wise to speak the truth
when it doesn't ring melody
to the proof reader of the palm eater.