There is terror in the retrograde,
Oxide on a volatile horizon.
The pebble shore flayed amongst a gathering of strangers.
We are solstice, a reflex response,
the architects of endings both innocent and naive.
We are intimate the world and I,
with no preference to a direction.
Our indecision and diplomacy binds us only to the inevitable end game,
the front-line of disoriented insurrection,
and all of the best intentions.
I’m sharing a bed with doubt,
self esteem reaching out for help,
not sure you’d notice my shouts,
when I’m this far beneath.
She calls me back with no incentive,
and after a week or so of aftermaths,
i’ll parade you through an orchard of corpses,
as only this kind of violence hints at the depths,
to which I cling to so casually.