Moving between the spaces,
you fell short of a small―
sky and you give up the grid,
your secrets.
A sense is lost of direction,
and place. The opaque mind
will not tell even once, where
you are.
Wrestling with your conscience,
and demons, underside of
the palette, you become ready for
a self-potrait.
A drinking spree of moon
after a cease; where were you
going. I ask? Shell-shocked, you
pretend, what you have been.