One that doesn’t know how to reach out, show any signs of love, or some vital trace of human affection to prove you’re alive.
(Wild benediction tucked away at the seamstress ripping our sleeves.)
Drive us further apart steeped in sogged, crumbling walls.
No one moves or says anything about what we mean to each other.
By act of rebellion, the pitiful somnambulist pitches his fork between the might of his fingers.
Sadly, out of tune. No modulation for god’s sake. A child is on the way of becoming, without, clarity of sound.
Handling the hours by the desk with a pen grating the notes off my chest. Seconds hand me a paper towel to wipe off the sweat.
Lost in transfiguration, the sky howls its reasons for all seasons sighs goodbyes.