Deep, deep, deep
These claws dig deep, deep, deep
Into the soul.
Shadow waters, fathomless laguna—
A black hole,
The lacuna.
But tacenda, tacenda,
Painting the hoax enthusiast.
The quiet lament. The
Eccendentiast
Chasing flicker after flicker,
Knows no fika, fika—
All too fast, never a last.
Where art thou, querencia?
Sunk deep into the ravenous void.
Give me strength, a home, where I may quench. A
Finite life, the end, past the quatervois.
The parade of the faithless, the godless—
In their hands, no excess;
Behold bodies clothed in melancholy bareness.
YOU ARE READING
(un)quiet
Short StoryBoth fiction and nonfiction, this is a glimpse of the things that float about my headspace, of the things that, despite my external quietness, won't shut up within. This is a taste of the things I write--cathartic and honest to myself--the real me. ...
