There is a reflection when you look above-
into the effluvium, the world with no light,
but for the tiny ruptures within the glove
that cradles the sight
and creates the wonder of the surface that slips over the night.
When the haze from you is concealed from view,
when you’ve fallen from the shame,
screams are useless. Not even you,
the first one that came,
can make up for the loss of self when you threw away the name
no one else knew. Yet the light continues to await
your return and there is nothing forever lost.
To deny what others cry as fate
is the cost
of a freedom, of your return, to the above carpeted in frost.