Jo Ego II
a guided remix
from video game descriptions,
fairy tales, how-to guides, and flights
The wound hears the doom approach, it is gold with sweat.
Patience is armoured.
It’s not a matter for retaliation.
Solitude paws the ground. Part wing, part song.
Like a handicraft flower.
She is a smudge in a ruined sculpture, alone, unloved.
She drinks from her petal invention, parched by the unknown.
Grief isn’t a cradle song to soothe her.
The imperfect beginner holds fast.
Hears an onslaught of gallops through the garble of vines.
The craggy taste isn’t fatal but vigilant.
Her bones tighten.
She feasts on a stamen.
The scent of air once fresh now an excavation.
She dreams she is loved.