paper wads are crumbled
and we're not the fingers,
the light that burns and lingers,

ashen, we rise,
and float,

float to the moon,

or its light.


weather the sane,
whether the same,

we float, and burn
for the moon,

or its light.


enough love
for a grand empty born,


Rise.


it's not drowning
that the paths endure

in  the   transparent    seas-


We    are    the    fingers    becoming.