skin covered in shadows
a dead winter leaf bouncing against a flourishing summer tree
                                    catching the handle of a spider string
holding onto the living as if
                     it can escape its crumbling burial
             only can a field of soft, mumbling earth
                             call sleep more swiftly than a mattress
within the green and blue sphere are textured tints that release
            wifts of genuine air spilling into half-filled industrial lungs
                      can art be felt when eyes don't open?
as closed eyelids fall humble to the glowing yellow light
            answered silently with a curl of the lips