caught, trembling-handedly, in the usual
act of wait. questioning cycles in the
sky, rift from day to day:
what is elementary? does
start or stop again sing
life into this void? the
vestiges of hurt are seeping
through, water in the brickwork.
with nothing caught on tongue,
silence just lies here, too, awaiting
hope or the end.

does it end? are we
just cycles in the sky? tiny burnt
and burning hands, to reach at one
another, from our shy corners?

no answer. just the dark out,
gently leaking in.