If each bright face twitched the needle for living's guidance, I'm lost in such a sea of glances. Something magnetic in a lock of hair confuses each limit of my self.
Stars map only loss, where vacuum lenses out their light.
On whatever chart, night is not printed into the likeness of any face. Like a sub I travel blind with the tug of the lagging heart to spell how far I'm travelling and where under the cry of birds and the cold sun. Please respect the fact this material is copyright. It is made available here for personal use only. It may not be stored, displayed, published, reproduced, or used for any other purpose.