---

i find a sense of contrivity

in what follows the storm

the wind that swept my feathers

was but calligraphy untrue

i am a moth to you

i rationalize

there is a path to salvage but

danger inspires the worst persona

to the surface

over and under the archways

vines entangle the stonework

the passing of time encourages growth

why stray from nature?

when the source of pestilence is inside yourself

let your architecture be encased with life

experience so wise

a simple moth can grow

when nothing left aside

can devour from inside

the severance sublime

was the only loss of mine

cries to the deaf

shower all with uncertainty

always untainted the freedom of autonomy

a window to every life

through which we see ourselves

comparison to world

is pain in high fidelity

compromised position on morality

spread with no more acuity

than a common stone

unveils the stale persona

an effigy of one

do not be the one

i find a sense of sickness

in what follows the storm

the wind that swept my feathers

was but calligraphy untrue

never to be a moth to you