Bent to a slouch,
unbeknownst…

That we walk
never unladen.

And perhaps only later,
burdened
by the wreaths
around our necks.

.
          These thoughts
are a haphazard
                 tessellation
of moments,
         sounds
           and scents -

  caught in a
      persistent loop…

         Such it is,
   that they herald
       no known beginning,
and yield
     no foreseeable end.

.

It’s the silence
that commands the dialogue,
the lull that weighs
bitter and heavy
upon the tongue…
And the darkness,
that hoards every cadence,
reason and rhyme.

Within its robe of

                                    black.

A shot in the dark.
Spearing into the moonless sky.
Trailing reddish orange.
Shedding inconsequential sparks.

Incendiary…

An extension…
A digitless hand
of a troubled mind.
A sinking reach,
amidst troubled waters.

A prolonged moment of grief,
and helplessness…
That echoes into countless sets and rises.

Darkness looms…
Always…



And I’m all out of flares…


.