Watching in shifting
stance of futurism, I will
be choosing frozen―
pains of the past.
Endlessly I begin
again, the pursuit to meet
the end at moonrise.
I look up at the moon,
and you look back at the road.
And I will ask, what
was the black truth?
You always think of
the windows, when the doors
were shut. To escape from
the colossal mistakes?
Truth, one day
will melt in your eyes.
I will pick up the pen.