Trackers never track
until the tracking happens...

They all rot and fade
these shoots of expectation...

With you I'm begun,
no more a phantom...

I left you
to stay with you...

Beside these forlorn shades,
there are no realities to my existence...

In the metamorphosis of formation
shapes ache to attend to their final cause...

Birds are as free as
they are trapped in between the...

Pots
brewing on the burners of these corroded...

Butterflies of poetry
forever flutter in their reflections...

You run upon the lavas of all your fears,
though...

No acceleration in the falling speed
of a feather oscillating...

Later is solely
the perspective of wheel marks...