The mirror assigns a label to unravel,
a misty thread weaved through eyes and air
like a vine clawing its way up the bricks,
pasttimes and passions cast out in a fit
of hunger, hate, and an unknown emptiness;
the ether may be teeming with blueprints
but the language is as foreign as stardust
with roadside pebbles as thick as gemstones.
You try to pocket one, but the weight is hot,
as unnerving as molasses with no aftertaste,
and the memory is haunting on the tongue:
spit out the seed to burn away in the sun
or nurture it deep within like blackness,
like some secret insanity without a name
but as familiar and home as your own skin.