An abyss of bewilderment devours me.
My day to day a worn film stock,
exposing my self loathing.
On this eerie ride, my knuckles are white,
while the hinges loosen.
I stargaze, solo.
The moon casts its shadow on Edgar’s evening star,
the glow of the moon like the brightness of a candle,
in absence of their agency,
the star the candle itself.
And I turn away,
eyes now at the beating currents beneath the night sky.
By no miracle of my own the star appears,
I see myself, a rusted classic
overshadowed by a facade.
I pick me, I pick me.