Marjoram and bits of tempest
A spinning glowing disk twirls, in a corner, on a string
The candle blows itself out, in the wind of a thought.
I wanted to count the days, lazy, like smoke
Intertwining, meshing like those layers of the levitated dust
Coming to life.
They’ve nearly reached the critical
The mass of doubt, so perfunctory
That assembles in the dark corners of a universe
Where no one pretends
I’ve left them, the switches, the to’s and fros, which stretch and reach like glassy waves
That’s the place, when no one’s looking, for it to rise out of the glowing, ..
Of course no one’s looking, there’s no one there to look.
That’s in the sadness, again, of the ”puff” ..that is missing an exhaler, its source..
In the plain and simple destruction