One.

Dead.
It stands.
Illustrated
For nothing.
Too nothing.
In the isle.
Of Loath.
And weeping to the ecstasy.
That shown once before.
The crystal eyed.
Slept none.
Cabin soft.
Escape.
Playing mindful.
Collage of inner chaos.
Volume languid.
Unreal.
Illusion
It thinks to an eroding tone.
And still present when it leaves.


Garrett Johnson.

In your company
we hop to the top,
our held hands hold
the air we draw on
near the summit;
running gravity out of town,
what goes up
not coming down.