30 december 2020
regret seems to set the rhythm of my life like a dance, a tempo, a cyclical leitmotiv the same steps i repeat over and over again a choreographer of grief oftentimes i create (friendships-art-capital) and i destroy, and i regret destroying a triolet, a ternary beat that my existence seems set to my feels, written, buried, and now mourned i hold death in my hands irresponsibly and in rueing those things i bury alive i rue myself, my fate, my own death
--i know this seems depressing--
-and it is, for certain, i know-
---but
the moon's completion has come, and gone, but i remain here, never begone my nights are no more sleepless when the sun's reflection is seamless as those days eclipsed, the crater is never fully lit, i am the blight that turns sunlight into moonlight, the sheet of silver, the aluminum mirror the corrupt, the monochrome losing a dimension or two, or three, the filter the dark
[don't judge my writing on this. i'm tired.]
moonlight moonrise moonset moonstone moonshine
you know, i really do try to overcome myself life death
always death. such a bore. goodnight.