you've nowhere to run,
you hit the line of
demarcation right about the time
that tomorrow came, never promised
It was a try at one of several targets,
ever moving, a chance to catch some sites
and catch a ride on the ebb
of your own dampened sight,
already lost it, alright.
So quietly, sorrow never felt
as good as when the fog crept
through the valley and convinced
you grey would stay forever––
charmed loneliness.
Those who would pick bones,
those who depart before the sun,
we who would fool you,
fool ourselves, fool you––
what you wanted was to know yourself
So hard. And in its dreaming wake
life, the first inch, the last to take.