There is so much time to take, to do, so much private nature. This is the wall. We move here as History hangs over the lagoon that was the lake that covers the road that does not lead. Cloud daggers take shape from growing fears. There's no moon to explore and memories promise coming to our beds in dreaming from opposite directions.
Crosswinds sing the whiter world's a cavity of graspable night.
What has been squandered is the rain of a mire of stars proposing union last heard falling shimmering. It has to be sweated for. Where long labor, empty moments, the waterstriders, must ride the passing currents and revive in the frustrations of advancing, I love and my spirit lives- on within me without. If behind the door you thought gave hope there is a wall, that is language heaving like a shitload of hate. If behind a need you hoped could be met there is a wall, that is a pusbag of words like a codename for death.