It's--
A ryeglass with-
Bi-frost lenses,
Yet sight rusts
The memories.

We shiver as
Only-a-fragment
Is heard in colour.

And to peek-
Shelters
Time-travel.


This gestation of
-Mono carbonic
Feelings--

'Irrational'

When all we have is,
Waiting-
I dry wash my heart

In stained glass teeth.

To
Feel-
Less.