The Ink That Writes the Midnight Sky

Shackled to the sun and done with everyone, he said, "forge my memory to satisfy the hell in me."

I won't forget you but I still won't let you. There's a spider in my throat that plays sweet chords and hides her swords in words.

Edens to homeless heathens and surely uneven, we sighed, "a wall of trees is growing through a past that needs unknowing."

I wish for blue at night but still turn out the light. This planet pulses free of souls, green and dreamy but unwhole.

Wounded by the moon and trying not to swoon, he lied, "I loved you once but my will is oaken, I don't miss what's meant to be broken."