I dip and sway through pensive rest.
Questions seeking questions.
After, questions come to question,

invoke a sense of quest along
******, fertile valleys.
Eve not tempted, Abel slain not.

A form takes shape—remarks on shorn
paths unmade. Yet, dust feigns,
posing outcomes chained to bloodstains,

and trapped disdain that I am here.
Lown morn can’t be—ferals
tailored ferals future solid,

and ducking had no real weight.
Whether crafted broken,
or molded careless over haven,

persist, endure, we tell ourselves.
From our limits given,
We’ll get nothing truly certain.