Untitled

The weather is full of traitors
who attempt to give us purity
in the way of news.
Solemnly the night crawls.
Not a sound
because the emptiness is
so fulfilling.
There is pressure against the stars
to hold up the sky.
I look out the window
- a prism filtering time.
No one believes
in mysteries anymore.
I hold the world inside my pocket
written in verse
which no one will see.