Focus. Damned dancing numbers. You’re sleeping through your plans. They’re all widows anyway. Long distant conversations. Existing faintly. Trepidation’s calling. Answer not the callous cowards wail. Focus. Every single one of them. The homely and the vagrant. Each one empty and pulse dependent. Open the valves. Don’t hold a hope. You’re desire starves. This is a slippery slope. There is nothing new. You have no business here. Ask for nothing but tears. Put every last one to the flame. A bird of prey is not fit to hold the reins. You know nothing of furnishing abodes. Why grit your teeth or politely strain? You’re Fangs won’t sit well upon any throne. So reap. Make your image of fury and bone. Make your peace with the grave. Why do you want to be found? Fearless, no one will hold you as tightly as that waiting hole in the ground.

Art- Kelsey Brookes