Only the darkest hour sheds the lightest of words.
    Feathers falling from your lips.
          speaking with a mumble in your breath,
A panic in your tone,
            and a stiffened cry in your throat.
Pigeon-holed by your quick lapse of reality.
  Disarray hangs on the tip of the colloquy.
Embellishment sails upon the grove,
    crooked spines inflame with a matchbook hue
Rock reflecting back at the shrine as the gravel mass reveals the sweep of the
  overwhelmed,
            and underrated.
Filing in and settling out,
       The fear jerking hag rests its validity to the sun.