It is
to run slower,
to walk
at the pace
of despair.. that
moves to surround
and devour the whole
of what keeps
the mind.
It is
to not just be
haunted.. but also
to face
the hollows..
collect
the roar from winds..
patterns from thunder..
to hold still ..the rustle
betwixt cold fingers, and
try
to spell
a picture.
From Book IV
