On what empty
Canvas
Where thumbs glide
Oh what hidden
Things
Each tap hides
Driven by the
Drumming
of my Thumbs
To what end
Fiction
conflicts yet Come
A psychedelic ambuscade
Glaciates
Over pages thin
With no apothecary
To
Sew my spine
This is my
Diction
Emblazon the Brittle
Parchment
Of unadventured days
We watch ourselves
Slip
Through the cracks
Of the Us
We
Became to Wish
Prepare thus dish
Avaunt!
Bane of Today
Self forgiveness I
Assay
Much I deserve
Alive with the
Twinkle
Of each star
I'm glad to
Know
Contentment isn't far
This is what
She
Couldn't pray aloud
Yet
There's a sweet
Hope
In the unwritten
Drizzle
Of every cloud.
