Corners painted black

Imagination brushes up against reality, its corners painted black

A crispness of asperity just rounded-up in a ball of cotton

And then there are sins.

The sloth, the envy

The gluttonous man

A decoration of frugal temporary edge to an unedgy universe

To a most likely round infinity with its corners painted black

I have no wish to confess any sins, Father, and so

I’m back. I very much respect them, these sins of mine

An alphabet of sorrow that’s written piece by piece the song of the

Divine with no shaped regulations, just light, and dark, and shades

And memory slowly fades

It is the hill atop of which the vision gets the clearest and then the night

Will come, its corners clawed in black. The dark, deep, low embrace

That fills the heart with grace

Will sing of my return

I am not dead

I’m back.