From the sketch and scribbles that abound around, me
They in their unlightened textures swallow
That which is left, that what is left
The cupboard hollow, save for dust and lost anticipation
There was a golden star pinned upon the ceiling
Its happy spark spun along the almost perceptible bluish plane
I could not depend on where or here
And no matter made, it sated just the same.
It was summer, then in the same, the spring.
It was day, and there were buds that promised
Nothing
But for innocence.
And the words wrapped about me, and that fount would unceasingly
Provide the better and best of fashions long forgotten
The intricacies and fineries of labor
In this space
I breathe little else
- upon the occasion of missing you severely and, in my illness, envisioned the titular subject. Please forgive my passions, for I shall compose a 2/14 array.
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