vicissitude, convoluted.

you, the xylem.
i, the phloem.


unscrewing ruminations;
cascading premonitions.

this space.
the distance

of

A
to
Z;

of the sky to

the moon.

your cunning gaunt
echoes a deafening sound,

of ten thousand decibels ----

but not quite.
not quite.


somewhere far

the girl with the

dreamcatcher tattoo
runs home.

and finds nothing,

but cobwebs and
illiterate hardbounds of atlas.

this stark blindness

ushers down
as it traces
back to the acromion process
of this solid,
unparalleled nostalgia.

waning,
wailing in vain.

how far,

is near?
the miniscule minutes,
the fragments of days

are that mastodon nightmares

choking us, burying us

six-feet-underground;


to the pitfall

of nothingness ----

and

loneliness.