January twenty-ninth, two thousand eleven:

Twelve hours elapse without a palpitating soul.

Vertigo arrives in the form of lethargic dreams,

Singing me to somnolent states without a cure.

Nocturnal nepenthes evanesce from my hands,

Whereas smoke never evacuates from our plans.

Typewriters record the spoken veracities of mine

And consume vintage fragments I cannot recall.

I walk these lonely pavements without a ghost,

Because venomous words hurt more than a hit,

And I cannot inhabit the clouds with an anchor—

Why do fickle footsteps resurrect the melodies?