In the culpable darkness of the shadows, there is a thin stream of light, bordering the darkness, shining mutedly- patient, and cynical of the possibility of dawn or rainbows

Homely little pockets of grief simmer at the edges, waiting to be cultivated by greedy words. At the porch there are streams of dust revealed to the eyes blinded by light

Beyond the darkest corners, stand the grey domains of remedial relationships, vouching for a healing as one bleeds. Countering it nothing noteworthy happens

At the gates in the distance, a humble matador leans on to the armoury of death, promising nothing, relinquishing nothing, pedalling a fate foretold.