In and in it seeps, into the gash
carved of disillusion, a sorrowful mass.
My bones are cold, icy, estranged from civilisation. Beneath 4 o clock violet skies, those marred by the offset glow of yellowing street-lights, this graveyard hour numbs me. Mildly authentic, I push on, indifferent, into the cold, cold world. But, when at 4 o clock each afternoon, humanity stills, hidden in knots of disillusion, I breathe; clutching words between compressed thoughts, and await the next violet sky.