I sink in reflections of
back alleys and waterways drowning in
submissive and tragic fallouts
from yarns spun in haste.
My finger tips prickle
and 3:00AMs come and go
while I struggle to write,
in pencil, so evidence can be
destroyed when need be,
but they don’t pen letters to me anymore
and my words are heedless, useless
and can’t protect from this
imminent daze of truth.
I speak to others with confidence
of truth and protection
and they look me squarely in the eye,
but when I pick up the fallen pencil shavings
and scratch the sharpened lead onto the
bare surface beside the open window,
I look out into those back alleys and waterways
and wonder that I never saw truth
in their sacred, deserted air.
