There is a land that writes itself, in the spaces of my mind. There, all songs end on minor and the forgetting in each eye.
There is a season that folds itself, in the chambers of my eye. Then, all songs begin with sadness and the breaking of a life.
There is a current that runs itself, ‘cross the canals of my cheek. Within, every song whispers longing and the drinking of all tears.
In each is kept a memory, that chimes the rhythm of the stars, or a silken addendum to the making of my scars.