writing in swarms
buckets pour through
and nothing really lives
or maybe everything real
or maybe nothing is real
and matter is only a quotient
to the mass of
what is real is
as hoping on a stick
love sinks in looming loss
flossed in its cocoon
it burrows deep in sorrow
weeps within
and drowns
only to be rediscovered
by curiosity one day
and when its allowed
shallow feet