white chapel quiet

my heart is neatly quiet
doesn't declare its intention
of putting the night away,
of sending the world out,
as i dress for work,
the children in me leave,
spinning yarns of nebulae,
i see with closed eyes and a primitive heart
i haven't faded to a new moon,
been altered to fit the curve of your heart,
or grafted to a poisoned vine,
so i could choke and weed myself out,
i do not bloom a Belladonna night,
i do not rise a skyscraper,
there is nothing to see
there is nothing to see,
there are no spins. no whirs,
no provocative sounds,
but my mind on autopilot,
shutting down on nostalgia,
cementing memories forever
in fragmentary semblance
to abstract infinity