Hidden from sunlight.
Desperate like Nosferatu,
You coil in darkness,
Locking thirty, some odd, thousand words—unheard
Sun to you was everything and left empty
Rendering another,
like endless suffering—for nothing
Burning offerings, recalling
destruction.
A minute with you, my
blessings my vision remaining.
I started with you and something was missing.
Instant gratification.
Rock-paper-scissors, Progress wins...
And, convenience always
beat you then.
I got addicted to the hustle,
The hour push through
I brought you, concealed you, to later reveal the
insufficiency of my memory,
Waiting for my picture-imperfect imagery.
Like caste about seeds, my muse had breathed into thee,
One from each dozen I'd show her to.
If both met perfect conditions, the first clarity, the
later, uncertainty.
The later had books and books of brilliance,
Mine are books lost to arrogance.
35 mm film—I'm sorry
I couldn't protect you from external misery and other
elements.
I really like this one, this one, to me, is on par with Murder.
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