I'm bored of this womb, this padded enclosure, where mother, by tomb, wears dull her exposure, like ribbons in fall, the birth of their ending, their ceasing of bending, as mending not looms, but hovers like presence in silent-lit rooms. I'm tired of this plague, that leeches on empty, its heart to renege, its emptiness plenty, a vacuum, a vending to soon saunter in, a semblance of spin, akin to the candy, that first drew you in, when colour seemed angry. I'm stripped of this aid, that pleases the wound, that arms the brigade, to laugh at the hounds, the keepers of calm, the guardians of placid, the commandment tacit, the acid, the lotion, to lead the soul's march, in the battle for motion. I'm separate to this, the oiling of strings, the growing gale's kiss,
I've missed what it brings, like dust in the current, submerged in the flow, taking in as they go, all below, all beneath, until giving their setting, to x; marking death.