there’s something strange about
the way you move.
is it those limbs, stretching,
branching outward as evening spawns?
vermicelli white, spilt milk and jaundiced flesh,
it crawls over tiny bones
that snap like toothpicks when pressure and stress
break the state of being.

 is it those eyes, reaching,
spinning in all directions as different paths cross?
apathetic azure, ultra-grey and glassy,
they play cruel, silent games, their black pupils
swimming in a sea of severity.
from their eyes grow salt blossoms
when heartbreak and terror strike and sullenly
warp the state of mind.

 is it that mind, spawning,
plotting danger, avoiding hopelessness as life moves on?
beautifully connected, an enigmatic maze
of puzzles and paradoxes, fiction and nonfiction.
torn between malevolent ambiguity and withering hope,
it desperately searches in its own creation with one wish
that keeps the stars in an imaginary sky in an imaginary world
and secretly distorts the mirror of sight.

 or is it that heart, beating,
pulsating softly, a melody of cryptic songs,
buried in a shadow world of its own making?

Eventide
By: Hannah Klump