Peering. Sticking to me like stale glue that is too evaporated to bind us properly.
The assurance of your dismissive arrival is another reason to fear you.
The other is the accent in my head giving orders.
I take them hoping for relief but it grows louder and softer and then harder again.
The tempo eradicates the imagery of sight.
I will be blinded by the words in the book of promise.
It’s chronological and faint but I can still feel the author’s every whim as the pages fly into the air.
As I try to grasp them, they cut into my fingers with glee.
The blood releases the pattern.
I am free.