soft motes
of sorrow
twinkle
in the abeyance
between
true and false

the puppy
barks
at every noise
in the hopes
the master
has come
to free it
from the kennel

there is
an analogy
there
but the taste
of amber burning
on my tongue
has my mind
in another place
my tongue
doing
other things

lost in
the pavlovian dystopia
we happily plant
never seeing
the bulbs
are upside down

maybe the cold
has me
feeling
philosophical
or maybe
this feeling
in my chest
that sings
for the chair
to be kicked out
is stronger
in the
absence of light

instead i write
to the stars
to the moon
to the heaven
in her smile

curled up in a hell all of my own