ready for empty spaces and the end of the world.

muse.
prescribed for the faith of idealism.
left in the shadows of an artist's heart.
where no good may come but the weight of a brush and the corruption of a soul.
i am but a memory.
i sit not in the room where good tidings may come,
but in a room silenced with the company of a ticking clock and running fridge.
where do we get out?
a memory none the less.
i see, hear, feel you.
the day at the beach skips my mind back and forth between the walls of my head,
like stones skipping through an ocean's wave without an end,
stuck like the sand between the sheets that this book will forever be read.
it'd be selfish to think this is about you.
so here it goes again, one page, to the next, i count 16 dead.