As everything else is still.
The pale light is not enough
Only a dense and heavy film.
I turn and turn and turn
There are noises, shadows and chill.
I'm cast on the wayside
but must tread the steepest hill.
This hill within my anima
In chance, may yield a fall.
This lie we nurse unto ourselves
Is treason after all.
I am no more than a fallen leaf
That nourishes the tree.
A primordial innuendo for
A tempest greater than me.
--kg
