Dreams are not tangible
yet I grip my pen to recount...
When we're rushed for time
With the working weak ahead...
The fear right
below your skin, festers...
Bleeding sonnets written in
Latin, a narwhal breaking...
Anxiety runs through my veins
My life seems so far away...
This is not a poem
And it is long...
And I am somewhat glad
to be home among the sunshine...
I felt the cold of insignificance,
where eyes used to meet...
She sighed in prose
And wept in silence...
Street lamps burn the night away as moths fly...
The wistful air in dance and play, trailing...
Do not unveil the
wound of errors...
Poetry follows me in sleep,
trailing down snowy banks...