The flutterings on my neck,
Not the front,
As of a dove crashing into me
Breast first.

The softness awakens
The imprint upstairs.
Sameness occurs,
The mirror angles upward.

Wrought blindly,
The salvation is declared.
Broken a thousand times over
I hear with a single voice/color which is none.

I impale briefly on that which is wrought,
Not the front.
Sameness occurs,
The eye angles upward.