The age has taken
away the bones
of tall trees.
I am drinking
from the lips of moon,
the tiny specks of pain.
Crossing my candles, I
try to read the dark
sky, hanging from distant stars.
What was in store
for us, secured in vaults
of future rage?
Is it the last confession
of dying bottomless
present, without a cue?
The prophets of doom
are on the doorsteps of a
long winter night.