Did you find solace
between the sheets of personality,
while confined in the direction of ruins?

Desolate
we wanderers of comfort and place.

Leaving my psyche
              this transient portrait that befalls you,
Distant opal reverie.

Memory begins with a whiplash
and you find yourself confused, confronting
              Poise - something heavy
A linear escape from bereavement and glut,
exposure,
the truth - the fear.
First lick at hopelessness.

All hoary truthful words entrap and disguise
the affect for feeling
like the piercing red sound of going blind,
             back in the pupil black depths,
with an alarming echo that resonates and disturbs.