1706

Slow delight,
accompanies the blissful trite –
expressionless bile –
that is here present.

Along the way
the slag of a light known as day
(though it’s furthest away
from his mind)
is spent
lazily, calling for soulless repent
from a murkier past:
Not uncommon.

There, our municipal pit
All thoughts and feelings enter
is full, brimming
with nameless creations!
No claimers and nobody looks for,
or asks for, their namers –
remaining silent
till they’re called from the nights.