I hear it all the time.

Bequeathed with a lone adage, it appears out of nowhere, melting the arched eyebrows of penance.

Into the melting frost from leaves that let go of a part of themselves in the process, digs the arteries of balance.

There is something missing you say only to collate the nerves of probabilities into a neat pile beside your bed.

From it you draw surreptitiously one of those that echo into the night