After all, the stars will confirm nothing.
Evening is gathering in the grim groves of pine.
Another loss, to keep.
What will you say, tell me, of trial and error?
What will the violet moon quiver over now?
Are you rational?
I do not find fragrance in sorrow.
Misplacement. The wrecked key.
I actually grieve in the evidence of gods.
How can we be compared to the past
when we are so busy continually becoming?
Would I even be allowed regret in a morally
vacant world? What vacance? What world?
I miss you. I hold on to what never comes to me.
I see now, I was meant for nothing.
Each day prepares me closer, as if in apology,
for the end.
But I am of the sea, whom doesn’t apologize, however blue,
for its unreformable honesty, relentless candor.
Unshakable, dissolving grey.
Blind with the light of creation, softened
by the flares of stars in its purple rim.
In fathomless credulity, an unfamiliar dusk, we know.
The relentless scattering of hands, gorgon silt
celadon bodies that no longer return
but long to return.
And may, one day. Formless.
All but a rind of salt, a veil of sand and muffled