A Loud Orphan Never Expects

Was as right. Why ask slaves what to do with their masters?

Alone. A. Lone. No one there. Inside the sweaty cradle where the needles first painted our blood. Stoic rainbows bending hard over the spine of the sun.

All lost, owing no excuse. All found in the dead of my skin. the perpetual ignorance of hope. the stuttering fluorescence of breath. Still insisting it can escape the dungeon of my lips.

We are remembering. We are resigned.

A light out not expecting.

To ever see itself again.

This hidden eye. Peeled from my flesh. Sighted by the cut that has blinded the rest. In the perpetuity of arguments with touch. A lie neglects only everyone. A. Lone.

To me, reason finally admits not knowing. Why there must be darkness in order for light to exist.

A loud orphan.

Near Enough.

To see what was never there.