Thumb through each vertabrae
Please
don't startle the moths
Powdered wings express explicitly
the decay of contentment
Each flutter hides a flame with sand
between the nape and dissonance within
Internal fermentation is aroused
by the tumult of emptiness
These spaces swallow matter
aiming to defeat nothing
Stave off synaptic transmission at the precipice of compunction
Illumination met with rosey shades
is it an opposite or reflection?
At the painted canvas of tethered flesh
muscles fail to quiver
There's nothing left but knots
fibers intertwined to climb down
An infinite
drop