The maze of an interior thought. The gown upon emotion. Sun signs; moonlit. Feeling aged. With something looming. I wonder if aches are weathered. Symbols are jutting; the cliff is silky. So many grays. In a state of affairs, critical of reflection. It all sounds said, until it sounds new. We’ll die in seams, unattached, longing for closure. I keep looking at it, wandering an ending light. Although, as it seems, such tiring souls—immortal chi, destroyed parts—arts by silence. Ink of this land; future memories. We neither say it, nor avoid it—to rain upon crops, to sing in spaces, averted from self.
