Inclined to stay in that imaginary pause,
Where you're being pulled into inertia's triangle,
The image of a sunset front and center
To a cloaked morning, where existence is deniable.

Suffocated by the storm of dust,
That the departing horses have left in their wake,
Behind the weight of two closed lids,
The silence is a marathon that inner voices partake.

And the world is but a whisper, so far away,
Trespassing to reality's sullen grounds is forbidden,
The difference in pressure makes my legs stateless,
Too tired of treading the same roads, eager to stay hidden.*

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