broken pencil who
The minor virtue of breath holding pales by the light of your will.
It twists and sores unquieted,
unable to grope at the edges of light's solace,
repeating odes of brittled consonance to penumbras,
merging singularity with unsung contempts,
migrating to migraines...
A refraction of soulful monologues
never to reach conclusion
beyond the sectioning of transfusion shock.
