"Lost in time, and lost in space, and meaning."
In the deepest damp trenches,
frigid air freezing jaded breath,
in clouds of caricature.
Where the lines blur
between mind palaces
and the lonely depths of outer space.
Where the wolf longs for forbidden paramour--
the moon.
Dented and worn,
battered, weak force,
caressing sweet dewdrops
that sear fevered flesh.
In these pits
Chronos sleeps,
light bends and refracts.
Whispers dance on bleeding tongues--
What is life to the leaves and grass?
Have the birds no concept
of solitude of the mind?
Not even Helios at his sharpest
could blanket the edges and hone warming craft,
to slip behind barred doors.
How frail one must be,
to seek the hollows of the earth--
to bow down to Erebus, to kiss his feet.
Lost in meaning,
and fumbling clarity.