Soon

I
once believed
       you could would
   guide my silence. Each venture
of the tongue, hollowed in contoured
                             ring-shape diligence
               slid
         the graying death of
     what your fingers

represent.

                         Nothing, now is sacred.

                         Much more, now is a population of alabaster philosophy.

                                             Though you reach,
       the brittle shadow
   shows what weakness
             sounds itself into:

         hope, that in many days from now, the
       gray will strengthen into fathoms of what my original, colorful need

                       understands