tired in the pre-twilit
hours. night spent decon-
structing sentences, rearr-
anging syllable, and pen
marking the superfluous
for removal. and each self-
critical redaction is a
waning on this soul. and,
those thoughts erased,
nothing more than slivers
of soul to be erased - to cease.
though continuing, with
though and soul that emanates
without acknowledgment of death.