pale are the glories brought before and
quiet is the history of the mind. One that lies
and falsifies itself with story.
There in the trunk is the truth. Locked
safely away. The many thoughts of every
other body minus my own. My own is not
Orange peels, onion skin, egg shells. All
I have to offer is hollow leftover remains.
Pretty paintings without a canvas, no brush,
no pen, not a single frame.
Nothing worth keeping.