eremacausis

A stair­case always goes down, never up.

Winged bats and books snatch­ing up dreams as they pass by
And you would think it was a hunt
But it’s not.
Acci­den­tal destruc­tion, we have to make up sto­ries
To tell us oth­er­wise.
Sto­ries, fic­tion, blurry tapes­try on blank walls all around.

I hear the huat huat of tiled feet always for­ward going
Or stop or go, noth­ing else,
Why is there noth­ing else?