spinning pencil ends do their part
spare the nights I glare into morning,
hand beneath chin atop my sphere,
breathing
I, with famished fingertips, try to
make something of time, attempt to
know it like I do the seasons,
before it folds back to live in dusty frames
and white t-shirt stains again, learning
I suspend in silence the left half,
and choose the other
floating Into gravity, snipping the tethers thrown
from another, drifting my attempt suddenly
takes the backseat, for I’ve yet to step the
curious horizon,
the search now lesser to living,
I settle here, for now, because this line began left running right...
the gun sounded..
Eyes up,
I Breathe