For L
It’s the temperance of our silence,
ghostly attempts fall into the hollow
when the heart pauses, needs to define,
and desire curls itself up, still
believing it’s the vessel, if it only had a voice.
We slowly morph into faceless dreams,
arch-starved darkness; it’s there
we feed the wildest of our beasts,
and lie with them in quiet
Asylums, sheltered from rays of wind and light.
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