Molested by the grief, inside this sunlit blanket of swamp-land, my tears engage amongst weeping filaments and shallows, like the sunlight shattered in squinty eyes, against the shadows of swaying horsetail clusters, creases of light splinter and shimmer until the last dusk-light, carving whispers from lost moments, agile and whistling badly until the bottles break, those are my thorough thighs that dance under the new breath of winter, basking against frictions that spark a new singular confusion, that sudden hollowness of living this human attrition, amongst the chaos and irrational cruelties that blend in as natural as a baby's first smile, conclusions appear and fizzle, delusions bloat with glee, as the soul starts to settle, the crackling dying fire-pit of white ash, like the furrows found on withered brows, pleasures can seem emptier with these dwindling days, but i was living backwards, squandering my youth on self-examination and ascetic aspirations, out of fear and a doubtful heart, now those drugs are valuable to my decay, and living this life is still rich with possibility and transformative change, even as i grow too old to care about tomorrow.