Prologue

Whirls on the street
seed sand in the eyes,
so they open the sky
to bleed the purpure
upon the black hounds.

Their clandestine cries
unslumber me, for to be
awake when everyone
sleeps, is to be alive;
thus I speak with all
when alone, and with none
when with all.

I revel in this freedom,
whilst thinking of her,
and the scars remind:
the past is real
and scathing, but
illuminating for
all the chapters
left unread;
hence the climb
for the eyrie,
with her book
in her stead.