Tomorrow’s ready sands of missing journals

Navigating texts like way stations
Recalling the broken syllable; trust adjourned
forecast to the ready sands of missing journals
remembering only the harm caused by your touch
Stirred into a rhythm of indications, indecision burrows in our throats
Sedated by a lemon parapet on broken soil
banned by grateful insiders of bespoke hierarchy
swallowed by the old gods of rage and plagiarism
disguised as docile messengers, forgetting their craft
soon to be present in the moment, like a drop of rain on a canopy