Warm is the whisper,  a navigator the void that fills us when I find, in the cold:  journey, silo…

Warm is the whisper; a navigator the void that fills us when I find, in the cold: journey, silo, a kilo of aching petunias.

I know — we yield a result if I laugh, it comes for a meeting I do not bend to.

I count frights; perhaps fleeting. A glass set down, lowering, I tend to return to my beginning.

I wield, where I cut the measure of the subtle; shaded is the bouquet.

I remain exempt, with a given weapon so that I may master fear. I am shadow, of course.