Reuben Woolley

the sun went south
for the winter
the twisted bones
without their clothes
...

for the world is besieged and the walls are broken
for the sun is drying our tears and the halls are open
for thought has passed and the mind is a door
for the books have been burnt and the print is crimson
...

here I am
alone in a quiet room
writing these words
in a diary I never keep
...