Through the night,

the extension of fingers

move in the motion of the swift down pour of the storm.

Side to side they go

with no understanding of the details,

they so unwittingly needed,

like the sharpness of the eyes that peer right throw me.

The strands of fabric we sew into the very existence of our minimization of upcoming presents of the past.

Like a constant replay of that song that ends all

but begins everything.

The lines are dark,

but show the lightest of mistakes.

This is the undoing of you,

with the vines of hatred that leave me

and into the continuous pool of nothingness.