mornings, diaphanous (relapse)

there 
is silence, slow and sinful, 
the flavour of you I dream of night 
after night, this etymology of desire 
cross-twined with the effortless 
and sublime. 

it has been months, months of 
sweat and sleep, the sweat and sleep 
of a blind boy clinging to moths, 
their attraction to light 
a mystery to unlock and cherish 
in suffering, in the quiet angles 
of a morning draped in fog, the road slick with dew 
and the messy palette of wild birds scraped and flattened 
into a tapestry of blood, a fusion of material and conscious, 
a deliverance of cycle upon cycle, a hard yet 
yielding truth of calamity dressed 
as fortune. 

what of this silence 
makes us wary to fight hunger 
with delusion, to decide 
that there is a trinity found 
in the collision of simplicity in the abstract, 
the vengeful in the pure, and in the caged response 
of seeking a road to define you 
in your quest for blindness through redemption, 
the sun a muted coldness upon walls burrowing and closing in 
on heart and mind and visions of how it's all 
quietly meant to be.