Formless shadows
disappoint
excited expectations.
They lie like fetuses
in the womb of the mind.
Their continuous squirming
becomes habitual.
These habits of emptiness
itch my skin–
its comfort long worn
like a holey wool blanket.
The bonds of empty imaginations
and distractions–
the threads of comfort
decay
as desire
devours my reason
like a mad raven ravaging her prey.