spore

in

amongst

myself

city gates

of cardboard-like

shut

a globe

of a thought

its flame

quite round

i will soon

have trumpets - for a stern for a stem

i’ll swarm

like an audience

find the root

in a tongue,

become dots

in tired white writing

my house

my wordlessness

walls deep

oh so deep

in the lantern-less

lungs, plotting

surplus of

us my copies

my mirror-

nudged pneumonia,

sphere and are

on dubious missions

to king myself

lordest decay to

eat as if no mouth

yet devours cities

your streets, lanes

and blood filled windows