perfect tense, picturesque likeness of a still life
and it looks right if you squint a bit phosphenetic fantasy

secret rite, parlor trick nostalgia turned sacrament then practiced to paralysis “why don’t I feel anything?”

vows I kept under the skin
promises broken and took on the chin lines I’ve drawn into the sand
hoping I could find old magic again

watersheds, on the rise
I don’t think we’ll ever find it flowing in the same place twice matching with an even tide

shallow breaths, foreign sky trapped among the satellites gasp from coma, vital signs
“how long was I out this time?”

vows I carved into the skin promises stripped of all sentiment lines I pushed over the edge
swearing I would find old magic again

red shifting, new worlds overhead parallax till the light rests within nothing is ever again
but there’s something like old magic ahead