a deserted sun's low hang drums
specks of light like spilled cigarette
across the lawn.
August, onset of the end.
Now we ask where the days went,
we sit under common question.
we know we've wasted.
Stillness, the unchanging silence
sifting under rituals, through relationships
reminds us of time and space,
the faceless dictator.
And in this stillness,
one mind becomes erased, as it
looks onward to a cleaner,
less chipped slate.
When I said you took me,
I meant you took the me
you made.
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