[hearts cannot grow in swollen lands]

tiny worlds held together by their tightly wound little selves that exist nowhere and nothing outside of themselves does either

words glimmer solely as mirrors to their enormous beings that tower over the tired futility of wordsmiths

and feelings are mere moments in a triumphant globe of disconnection and pools of reflection that reject all else-universes

hearts cannot grow in swollen lands bursting incredibly at the seams


frozen flora
from rest to sp_in_
some cheerless sun
creeping nearer
all ends must start
a stillness ceased
a beating heart