"It's called an Ouroborous",
says the voice,
in the back of her mind in
the front of my skull;
and this coffee taste like cigarettes,
but it makes more sense than
conversation.
Cause for later, like I "need"
an excuse to duck into the
night like a spy. Pity; cardboard boxes
don't work as well in real life.
Privy to the ebb, but avoiding it?
A shape that consumes itself?
A cloud that eats clouds-
A saint to any who would
worship in a mirror.