So I attempt to move ahead, to set aside the brooding things, but moods assert and dwell like dead - like ghosts adrift on empty wings. The spider webbing fills my head with self recriminations, rings of cloudy doubts and dreams, all led across landscapes controlled by kings who rule the shifting realms unsaid and quite unsayable, till springs snap shut and render into dread. Perhaps in moving forward, then I'll figure out solutions. When?
– some kind of sonnet, but it’s missing a line. Badly wrought.
