A Voidance


I see sorrow

coming, hands

denied as night

lies and lies.

Blooms lie. Hot

darkness, naked

and stronger for it,

anger whiter for it:

pulse prefers its pause.

Orchid yawning

wide, gulfs so

speckled with dots

and wrinkles, but

not cancer. Moss—

a patch of manic

wrappers holding

worlds, empty

oceans—steadies.

Chasms frozen

in scarred arctic

shells taste

warmth when

deaths crowd

its belly, cooling,

harvesting ends.

Inscribe this:

empty.

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