There must be moths in his heritage – he travels 

towards the light without knowing its intent. 

The glimmer of broken glass along a highway takes the 

role of breadcrumbs; guiding to the place they promised.

Light signifies life. Shadows are just a byproduct.

He never thought to question them, even if they moved.

He hears something in the walls. Neon glows a lot brighter 

against a lack of judgement filtered through blurred vision. 

The pink tones should be inherently sweet, but the letters 

speak of conflict. 

He elects himself a medical practitioner; capable of fixing 

the world’s faults. One, two, ten pills should do it. Wash it 

down with the poison you pick in the prettiest color. Light 

signifies life – tell that to the moon. The sun knows better.

Narrative of the lost, 2018