You run away
to a broken poetry.
At the wheel of a bullet.

The dashes
strobe in between
ether and words, a sort of glue

of being true
in order to convey
the physical world as a belief

and in the mirror
the same.
Knights against boredom,

minutes sly metaphors
for having movement,
hours for mocking the unknown.

I don’t see the difference
between the top of the pyramid

and a little clearing.
A fluffy nothing, a seed
touching down in the musk.

Say what you want.
No one is giving
or taking like you.