in silence, I talked the shadows billowing up the monochrome ceiling

of my brain. colored glass in veiled panes fastened the image of light,

thistles grew out of my veins—like tentacles that clung to the marrows

thickened by blood, lumped in interval, seeking nothing—

but, Denial. of what pain? of images flooding the ventricles of sorrow?

your sorrow. my litany of sorrow. this, World deceiving love

for sorrow.

I chose a room of my mind: dusty, rotten

in silence, ignoring cold nights, collecting damp rainy evenings

in rusty shack.

dead leaves fell of the branches,

I count one

by one,

the ashes.

I listened to the echoes

of distant breath consuming fire.

I looked before me—

in silence, in abeyance, the trail wiped

behind, and—
died with the night.