"reality rose like the sun, and still i slept through it:
'i can always witness it another morning...'
the thoughts like these are cemented in procrastination.
now this part of 'she' is liquid form somewhere on the floor,
as a self-defiant need for a cure.
diagnosed to emerge and roam away
from roads as thick as foam.
you wish to burn the candles that quietly service the arm.
another day with the shades pulled down
until the swallow returns her to sleep.
a father knocks on the silent door
while this part of 'she' has become an inferno shame,
louder than we expect from such silent candles
not so secret anymore."
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