I am lost — without a horizon. Tell me:
what is it like to live without a conscience?
Learning how to freefall in the golden patterns
of parachutes, each moment feels like sunrise
blooming in my eyes.

Dreams are like aged photographs, as we
live in their flat silence, posing in fragments,
dancing around opinions in wide, unguarded smiles.

But under a blasting sun, its rays hit like bullets
piercing ivy-orange through my chest — autumn-hued
wounds that hope to shimmer like the gleam of sunset.

So I gather what glows, from scattered light and broken
frames, trying to make warmth from splinters, and to name
it hope. Even in freefall, there’s beauty in how we land.