i’ve spun my web out of moonlight,
and now the trees come to bury the dead.
there are small stones that hold infinity,
whose very smoothness holds myriad maps.
while raindrops speak of salvation and seduction,
and the boxes are wrapped and eternally silent…
the lies we planted on fevered nights,
still hold moments of magic and touch.
and now the fire itself has come for cost,
as the falling star claims a name for its own…
sweat and tears, semen and the shake,
of the old man’s hand as he paints the night…
let us not speak, tis a time to listen,
a time that hands redeem…
for we are no more than love and failure,
no less than the hunger that drives the wind!