In ascending numbness you can think clearly at night and see the half-moon throwing the silhouettes in dim light. I suffer in my poems, foretelling of a sinking flame insulting the roots. The rising failure, like visitation of Icarus shooting from the surface in pain. An answer without questions erupts wearing a death-mask. Was it a speculation of claustrophilia carrying a prism? The marbled globes are melting. The danger was evident, you can smell it. Touch.