Writing is a messy feast
where crumbs fall to the floor
to congregate and aggregate
to hide and form and spore

Left alone and thrown away
these remnants take new life
invading what you fear the most
on dark and stormy nights

They creep inside your cleanest lines
to weaken and distract
what memory long has cast aside
now rising from the cracks

And latching on while holding tight
they make you speak their name
those orphaned crumbs your table cleared
—in sweeping lost disdain

(Dreamsleep: October, 2021)