Q u i d a m

Under-winged

Night's still as before, fewer clouds shrouding

in the corner, gushing & whispering with tall

frames, and I quiver my lips to speak or

thunder, "Where are you?"



first moments of expectation always queer oppressive,

almost terrible— decaying the truth as anticipation,

and I stroll and stroll around,

"Show yourself or strike!"

every whispers, rustle coming pretentiously

and mysteriously.

I weave through the waves of flares,

where the dipping figure came,

beckoning me to come first,

it swayed with the bizarre folk,

slowly dipping with one last glance.



this winded path always seem mysterious

to me, sneaking its way under my feet

like a snake wobble & gobble.

I thrive a knife to wither throbs—

suddenly the cold flame took me to its horizon.

branching me with trances.

only the dark snails biting hard,

spurring the last few bits & tilts.

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