Unfinished

Embroidered in me remains this moment,
this thin line of confusing atonement.
This sleepy eve of sunny December
my thoughts also fail to snow on odd ember.
The homely chains of my unchanging sheets,
now in disarray, wrapped under my feet.
The unflinching light, monochrome yellow,
feigning sun in its bulb, shy of hollow.
An ambiguous yearning, ingrained
remains, though no definition is chained
unlike me. My dreams of two falter
even after I’ve settled for wonder.
The pseudo-light carries trails of my thoughts,
both skin and soul accumulate on drought.
I do not know the source of this longing
and I do not see my conscious parting.
There’s no yellow brick road but instead there
is a yellow light on a cloth, so threadbare.
With that pseudo-light, I share both hue and tint,
the adumbration, feigning color and sin.
I can only blame the sun and its ways
for when I’m hollow, the moon does not care.
Flickering light of flaxen encouragement
wears thin when exposed, just like my judgement.

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