Left to dream
inside a colorless void,
empty as daylight’s ghost.
It is bitter,
without the resolve
I had hoped was there
to greet me.
Branching pathways
could bring me
in reverse,
or sideways.
I’ll remain here,
as still as the second
I have caught,
reflected in a teardrop.
I’ll be among
what others
have laid to rest,
drying out
in the earth,
denying destinations,
deciding on
crude resignation.
Life is the retelling
from different reiterations.
I’ll be the one
that became muted
before lips part
to breathe a tale.
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