For far away the poem lies bleeding in the corner hiding its scar in published plate
And ether calls solace across tomorrow night. Something in the way
She froze contracted the distance to now and all and here. Framing context draws the walls blanket around the gaol as the guilty book lies open, and she cries tears of pain and sorrow so that nothing reflects back from the dirty mirror.
For far away her dreams are not pure and his words can only cage. The wick retired from the closest dark smokes a memory of acrid loss. The flame lingers etched on sight, glimmering in the sky to her, lost to him. Where no-one will see. Precious, cannot be touched, cannot be seen, let me remain what I will be of love so that knowledge is enough. The words shift in their plates, guiltily sliding, twisting and swelling to break from their soul and sail back to sky where free they exalt their fears in ecstatic pin-wheeled trust.
For far away a witness has seen everything and can find no court to hide in. The secrets told are not to be spoken but treasured as fear. Reaching fingers grasp too late, ashamed of breath.
