i’ve been striding
this street for many a days,
but its grit tallowed dysthymia,
for mist thick enough to stifle noise
for mist thick enough to hide the Suns,

the cables hang,
entangled, taut!
your fingers, i cannot reach

o, my Creator

here lies the room in wait,
as clothes strewn as seiche-borne
meet a meagre bed of Dionysian dreams,
the wall slumps, tongue-tied, and i am
yet again
enduring haar that never soars.

just how much of me curls toward you,
and how much snaps away?
this street writhes before me,
smothered, sluggard, buggered,
its end inferred in grueling smog
this burden answers nothing
                                   *save the only question that matters,
                                     how much,
                                    am i shaped by thee,
                                                           ­              mother?