The elusive, which lusters illusion

with the blues, which eludes you like every,

which climbs Everest, which cuts ever into

after, which evades like a vortex in

your heart's vault. What's this all about? Why keep

yourself hidden? You're only left with this —

always this insignificant dash sliding

along an elongated sense of a

sidetracked sibilance while you turn down your

very self, which turns loss into more loss.