Daily scenery absorbed into recycled brushes,
Only later to dive into calming pure waters,
Only a speckle for the thirst when clouds had once made promises of floods,
This murky whirlpool suggests it.
This hand has sanctioned this misdeed,
Spiraling inevitably only one of two ways at a time,
Clockwise or counter-clockwise,
Time heals all,
Time ends all,
The ascending ticks command it.
How could I have failed to listen?
I’m never fully evading apprehension.
When I was young I was told never to read into the lowest of light.
Were they afraid of what I’d become if I were used to the shade of night?
Or did they fear it for themselves?
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