*

Ones knowing of truth,
can only be discovered by instinct -
time spating no sympathy to soothe;

there sees countless murders to a heart;
the first truly being... that of a harsh lit lung
&
unreciprocating tongue,
marked under flesh as remindful scars,
tumbled over many ways & faltered hard,
though -
mine reached not yet afar,
every hand harbors even the tiniest fraction of a burning star,
try until a flake of amber ignites toward roaring spark.