7 November, 11:50 pm

in still of night, doors locked

drawers empty of illusionary substance

(for what substance has smoke, anyway)

frigid chill of still air, bare arms

Braving unknown above-covers territory

for a glimpse of

Perfection, through the misty panes.

the solitary clock, ticking

One beat, one breath, pen-strokes melding

to rhythm, gear-created

in the soft half-shadowed

(somewhere, half between a dream and waking)

grey.