Time is but a stale stench, penetrating filter sinuses.
Memories of a bygone summer, in a heartless early December.
Gloom is grey snow, dirty with tire tracks.
Of frequent visits, to a land of no homes.
Whatever brought you here, stays here – rather grew up here.
A dome invisible, keeps your bread and flesh; fresh.
Ties made once are tied, shackled to your ankles.
Uncut diamonds adorn, what’s worth no steal unless broken.
Past, present and future hold no sequence here.
What is to happen, may have happened already.
Midst of this stand I, daughter of the sun.
In pitch darkness, killing spiders with a gun.