Where the soul stirs,
   in a maelstrom of fear:
       Spinning me down into
             a mote of dust.

‘Oh why am I

             here?’

Where the sky sinks
   and the sun drips, crystalline
      finally exposed

                  for what it really is

The great golden insignificance,
Cold,
         calculated, and still

                                       disconnected,

Is lost on
me.


         over the edge of a thousand cliffs
consumed
         just for the sake of consuming
the summer is frozen
         and even more brittle.

‘oh where are we going?’

under such tremendous weight
              the chest still rises
      but falls further


the distance, my only recollection
      of hugging the coast
                   in desperation

     the sea, turns and flees
ignoring
     my burning witch inquisition

looking up,
        chasing pinpricks.

the Night's veil, glittered with dead light

*'and there is no

                        direction.'