because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

promethea

Caught up in microcosms

and forgetting to breathe

I dance, shivering

over quicksands baked under desert suns,

phenomenon no less strange

than that I am at home in overcast lowlands

dripping dew and melancholy.

Huddled against a prying wind

and shielding what was once flame

from altogether extinction,

I look for direction

to a changeable sky,

try singing,

scribble in mud, hope

only not to become buried

in metaphor.

Thoughts?

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