Tuesday, April 29

Eleven Strangers

This pristine place bears no name;
Collected faces are in constant orbit
While I in dark material remain.
Eleven strangers bear the weight
Of a flawed world, not unwilling,
Though unwitting. Like so, arrayed.
One cedes space, then another,
And my small, fine world erodes,
Disintegrates into emberous love.
Eyes fold in color—reds
Touch soft black blinds, pinch
At sinking thoughts, forget.

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