Day Forty
Seven: A Hard Place
Beams in
smooth shades of particular
glass
doors, intentional shatter
Around fences
trunked with amber holds,
Through Clausta-formations
in the shivering depths.
Stuck in
all sense of the word, immobile death.
And so
just, and so smart,
And so
persuasive in the dark.
In to what
honour, to which, in which it boldly shows
That not
only is there something creeping but something more
Mold,
frantically peeking
So that in
every hourly check
The dank
space epitomizes shallow breathing,
Loss inducing
shortness of it all,
Something like
panic, but gripping.
If we all
came from a shining light
How come it
dissolves before our eyes?
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