incoherent thoughts,
the death of air,
stale breath on the back of my skin
walking little nerves up
my spine in the middle of winter.
and a song as cool as the lake
the season turned barren
and empty is played
to lull those who've ran away from
validity.

wherever i go,
and whenever i take one step forward
i know i'm taking one step away
from something, from myself.

it's vacuous, this place,
here, under the burning gaze
of a faceless soul.
i feel microscopic.
i feel like a wound on
someone else's skin,
and that if i heal, i will disappear.
and i know that i'm wrong.
this is what keeps me broken.
gotta do something right.

and it's up to me.
it's all up to me.
but it takes time to
pick up the pieces.
and my patience is limited.

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