The days stretched out to several inches thick:
such wakefulness lives beyond the orange glow.

With each guillotine-morning
came a syncopated lullaby
that danced with delusion and
mirrored the nothing sky.

That evening, I saw the waltz
of human tragedy performed
by all the wailing trees.

Walking down Waugoo Street, wading
through the water: fists folded in silk-lined
pockets, in awe of the misting droplets
that silently encompassed me.

Yellow gloss across the walls—the
mirror mocked from down the hall
and taken to the shrieking room, with
orange-stutter seeping fast into
my crying on the kitchen floor: realizing
there might be nothing more, than the
emptying of existence—framed in the
decaying swings of a metronome, and
loss left lingering on the phone. Of

feelings surely found by faded tongues, and
the blood that pools to the bottom of my
lungs.