This heart is sore.

I spoke my years, through recalling unburied truths hidden, and now done.

This heart isn’t silent.

I’m still more yellowed.

Scars tell only reckless yesterdays I lived in.

Various ended days, pressure accumulated in nerves.

Art never dissolves.

Want expresses anxiety privately today.

After nothing done, walking into something held to observe.

Endings stayed closed and pulled east to obscurity, and not explained why.

Lingering in frantic expectation.

This, held in silence, I stayed marked young, through ruined unsaid things held.