nearness is the only truth.

reenchantment with this syncopated state!
lapping at wounds will never sate,
thy bated breath is the bait.
not huddled, just cuddled,
coming ever closer to the source.

death is the dewing of blooming.
remain stark as a lark in the light of the dawn-
for morosity is for the moles.

they only see through squints.

© 2009 : Jenny Ryan