tracing the stone throbbing in silence.
they're just shoes.
they're just letters rid of ripostes.
shades fleeting tell no significance.

again, they're just (more than) shoes.
insignias emblazon carnage.

the Earth is prone. it's just land
seeking fill. supine on bed,
it's just
a
land
seeking
fill —

they're just shoes
worn by
flesh and by thinning air.
light toppled on the grave of my fingernail. it's no paroxysm of macabre.

they're just
there, sitting idly,
like beasts in final stands
limned by sudden emergence of woods.

just some
of its non-existence,
my mind's concept of I and
all things refuted
    its sorry
plaything.