45*21

slow descent into sadness
the clown suit sags
It is very wet and warm
The cockles are cold, however
We take for granted the winter
a forest
The ceiling of night sky
deepest breath
Morning
It looks like eggs again
but someone is starving
The knuckles of night
have stolen all the produce
My eggs are cooked
I look crooked in a mirror
Go for sandwiches
Everything is eaten from within
That silent kind silence
Everything rots
but not before it makes it inside