silence subdued by even more silence.
the unforgiving lens looks directly at me:
the metamorphosis from a flower to a bouquet
the shine on the face of a dead star
a molten rod ebbing and flowing beautifully.
the paper searches for a stack to belong to between
the mouths of printers and clutches of files.

an uncreating life have i become
the undulating ring of an amoeba.
a corrosive ink bleeds on my consciousness.
i see a soul in concrete and hate looking at gems.
the lover of flattery cries at a carpenter’s door.

the glass i see beyond amidst shatters
its shards reflect another person off my eyes.
i could’ve become
more than i did
more than i showed
more than i controlled.

i ought’ve.