In these profound solitudes
under mournful half-moon light -
the bleed-through color of contradiction
stains my skin with silence.

Only I could hear
The sound of breeze stirring through open glass
mouths gaping as winds of reality pass
cool and damp as snakeskin creeping
breathing on panes of not and now.

Only I could stretch
through reflections in blackened waves,
pull back curtains of apprehension
to resolve the small secrets
which hold us to rituals.

Only I could inhale
the mist of verbena vapours
after all the candles are blown out.
The sweet and invisible narrative
which carved my existence.

words © malai carrara