Greed of the sun swallows each moment— Speak gently, my hollow branches, For echoes scream when light Flows through needled dreams Of neither here nor there. Seven whispers torn from the cusp of a spiral, Strange lights mapping forgotten envy; Moons linger, trembling shadows Subtracted from reasoning. A question of burning raindrops, Renegade alleys smeared with wrinkles, The fear of knowing no ones path, Trackless destinations wandering between coveted veil. Beyond this word and that, Does the fire not regard with eyes, The sweltering gaze casting ice on moments?