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.

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