Life is precisely

the coiling of a wick as it burns

entertaining shape with the right catalyst,

until it chars,


becoming un-life:

coughing out phantoms of purpose.



“Everything dim hums,

Our fingers glide along this fragile state

Disrupting soft noise

with felt.”


This is a splinter

that I fell for

and mull over,

for want of…


Of words that could have been

or had been said better

Or maybe…


This splinter, I

want, am, feel often

is a constant

of dreamless night:

this in lieu

of a confidence

in completeness;


This splinter,

a ritual



for the demon in mirrors:

I toss and turn

to resolve its energy.


I suffocate in this dimness, as

a throat feels rasp in sync

to this place, alone

undeserving of teeth.