Akira Rabelais

a small clean wooden box, square, contains the waning moon, sequins of stars glittering and heavy night air. this sky leans on me that the earth can pass through, some chafed emotion, monstrous things whispered years before, rough parallel in a dream abandoned, remembered and said shallow and quiet to a slow decadence crumbling, forgotten where twisting limbs of trees shelter singing birds in twilight of all imaginable shapes, blur black wings wandering made to glister, memory, indiscernible knit consciousness, ashes in that unknown. swimming in white ruins the great beauty which is perfectly opaque, shadows watching the death of omens by loveless imagination sheltering from storms, interior mazes mirror enough to distract beauty’s thought, curves and angles roughly followed, unbound hair bleached in skull masks, ghost chatterings, shallow steps in a wasp’s nest.