it's like a drum that has no voice
that drums... a platonic yes
that has no wisdom
to bleed less about the world
but yet, bleats like a lamb
to quell the gristle
of an unspoken bone
in the air,

a speck of joy
is the space we love in....

and yet we die
for less than the sum
of a heartbeat.
we troll the fathoms
of our derelict
crimes
to arrive at nothing more
than a place
to cry...
and nothing is always
more than a place
to cry-

for joy.

or for
less.