Somewhere between the birth of the witching hour
and the acknowledgment of despair, I remember you.
You often found me in a different life.
Now the paragon of art has stripped us bare, without
leaving us those sad illusions, and remnants of reality.
But fear not.
I might still find you beyond a rhyme of stars, or in-between
the sins of neglect and moments of love after hours.

This was from 2016.
Guess I’ve always liked art sprinkled with a generous helping of science-fiction.


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