Truth is
I am numb.
From the thunder,
The wicked thrumming,
In the humming of your
Ghost toward here; donning,
Swirling,
Curling;
A wisp of dream,
A toppling of a tower
From memory.
From reopened
Scar. Pouring outward,
I’m dead from fear.
But nearer
To
Some
God.
The Larkspur Horne 
You write well. I like that
Thanks!
Welcome