gone (blog author's poem)

the colours and lines 

of violence wrapped 
around limbs, speak:

souls are holes torn open.

strain only fear 
strictness and balm
not real at all.

loneliness is shadows at the edge of near-periphery
where color-blindness starts

home is an empty horrific
nostalgia

familiar, comfort, carnivore

the aegis of that dark...

midnight-sky-heavy, 
keeps bones 
dead-star warm