Hands of granite clench my thoughts.
My dreams drift into midnight traps--
feathers of dandelions threaded in webs.
Hopes to hope simmer behind a life with no living--
soup boiling under the bite of a red fire forever

Inhale the mechanical pull to continue.
Release---a deliberate stretch to end,
each breath chasing a name that has yet to be spoken.

Neither moniker nor title does my nothing hold;
illustrations and descriptions left void
wrestle with the wind, then plead to a silent clamor. I say,
'Leer at the face with no face that sits in the glass tonight.'

These crusted eyes ache for true tears again,
for a reflection of anything would show where I've been.