Candles are victims to
Their flames, and the wicks
Veinlike, and thick with cold
Are pre-shadowed upon
Walls where they dance,
And grow by the watch of nights
Without mourning.
And even then the day
Breaks with its promise,
And buckles
And behind objects strewn
Blackness speaks
Such fierce vernacular,
That shudders unseen from
Corners and planes
And places.

It speaks of ash.
It says: “Sift through the dust,
Search for me, seek me
In blood.
But I am not matter, and to me
You matter not.”


You believe
That half truths
Shadows speak, so
You befriend the itch knowing
That always it stood;
You filling its steps, you
Breathing its breath,
Until that glimmer of candle
Light fades and becomes
Proof enough,
It’s proof enough.
Objects move, their chaos
Turns, a blur of motion
Curdles, calling out
What is left of you.

Inescapable now
Screams, stirring
From inscrutable voids;
Pushing, piercing,
Until you slip
Decrying those gods
Who gave you this weight.
And then you rest, just
Strung out, just
A picture of your past,
Captured at last in colour
Still, or perhaps limp.
A proof that ultimately
Humans are victims to
Their hearts.

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