a distant dust field rises,
melancholy and choleric,
and i float my fingers through the watery static
and pray that i’ll be alright.
this is where i find myself after
doing time for spreading whispers,
rallying silent conspirators,
treason against better judgement.
there is no sun here, only
the gentle, sorrow-laden light
of too long, too hard, too loved
and here, we rest.