Dripping lights on the death of the day
in the palm of nothingness.
The toes slowly grow numb in the presence of the mini-flamethrower
and graveyards of ash.
Ink scrapes as the flight of strangers yammer
with their brains buzzing.
I let the bleeding pens and grains of yesteryear
wash over everything I have ever become.
Amongst these trapped treasures and abandon passions,
I wait, whisperless.
