Waking eyes heavy against
the whisper of a cool breeze.
Door ajar, I hear the waggish spill of a songbird,
its gaze traced in perfect komorebi.
It doesn’t know
Discordance. I watch death.
Glowing vivity from the screen sears into memory
brumes of pitch obscuring
blooms of flame that swallow moments
lost to meaning. Again?
Mediocrity lingers between
rasps of gnashing teeth and wrath.
This human god has so many faces
and too many voices,
and I am so very tired.
