No Form at All
And can you blame her?
Can you blame her for seeking refuge in the gaps
a home that recognizes her form,
that is: no form at all.
A truth too sharp,
a truth too bitter;
a truth soldered and squandered,
pressed thin enough to swallow -
and can you blame her?
Can you blame her
for slipping into void,
into space,
into shapeless hollows,
into the unbecoming
where even the echo forgets her name?
Can you?