This evening is the color of loose hairs,
Almost gone in dusky breeze,
Floating steady, almost not there.
Built by erasure of the light,
From nothing.
We are the invisible gunshots
The treadless roads to some unfathomed place
That neither holds gazes, nor asks for
Sweet forgiveness.
The books of ends strewn upon
The newest shine of oaken wood,
Floors that hold feet from falling,
And make the ceiling a sky
Of plaster, of decedent caging.
Your hand passes through us,
As the daggers shine on toothless gazes,
We fear only tomorrow,
The graves, gravity, gatherings
Garner only nuclear adoration. 
In principle, we are the shadows of silver,
The golden rivers sweeping away
The blood from iron faces;
In reality, we are just the shadows.
If you have the tenacity to believe
That the real mixes into fiction,
Like blood and water,
Then hold my hand.
If not, let your hair breathe onward
Towards our skies of silken capture,
Ever floating, ever untold.