The most beautiful season of the day
Is the time before sleep. I hide into books,
Away from the burden of being,
Swaying with the galaxy of words.
A summer night
Is telling the depth of your skin.
Second floor, City Lights. Poetry only.
Poems are whispering silence.
If the world is pain, then melt me,
Melt me into the light between the shelves.
Waves of meaninglessness
Wash the body, leaving holes.
Then attack me with meaning—
Their only form in this world
Are those killing bricks.