Like too little butter scraped across too much toast;
something in me, one called it darkness,
another, a monolithic flame,
but by whatever name,  is growing thin.
Cynicism trickles
in like little drops of noise,
and inner strings grow silent,
quivering music hardened to quiet in the hours.
Winter without Christmas, spring without the flower.

I dare not strip the armor, I dare not taste the time
for shame is a hunter in the minutes
a demon in the bind.
Soundly safe
I am hidden now
cloaked by all the pressing down of memories
by distractions in the speed of feet and fighting,
fighting with the day, warring with the wanting to return
And all the while I am growing thinner, scraped across the morning

and the end.