BROKEN.

BROKEN

The broken clown

sifts like moving water

the glass house

is a dream

a metaphor

of something long past.

The darkness is like stone.

Everything is hollow inside,

a hollow shell.

No one wanders here,

lost like a lone mile,

everything is prude.

Stones are broken.

Like sad things moving.

Shadows move and bend with time.

I am darkness.

I am the wind that moves.

I am the grass.

I am the lone echo crying in the night.

The lone winter moor.

Shadows fade.

Time bends.