we’ve lost the map and the glisk is fading,
so we are saving ourselves for later, bundled
up in moonlight and kindling what is left
of our poems, kiddled by the phrases we
once warmed with our own veined ink.
we think we’re invincible, dragon-strong
and stitched together with our quills,
but staggered still, we sit here half
asleep and filled only with that quiet
grief that comes only with the fall of dark.
NaPoWriMo, day 2.