Otherwise uncanny,

A dress in short shoes,

And a drained thing left of you.

 

I don't speak,

to be heard,

I speak to see.

 

There isn't steps abound in midnight,

which held in air desolate but few,

and eyes between sunshine.

 

When in that great horizon,

squishing my arms,

I bend in two.

 

Slept in at night,

A shallow morning slumber,

Crescent shaped bread of dead days done me in.

 

Forgotten