just scribbled this out of the sentence that presented themselves to me

[apiphile]

the sun set so abruptly

mindless barking
animal skins
collecting upwords like spilled grains of white polished rice
my lost language
where did it go
why do my literary bones ache
white ghosts of trees, dusky-eyed birches popping out like winter mushrooms from the dark landscape
the sun is setting rosy-purple
inspiration has become solely crepuscular
no evidence of talent
spring water washing corniced toes
i am nicotine-yellowed but unsmoking
ugly words
infinitely tired
on the bridge in frost night i stake my soul to the city-smothered stars
tiny untwinkling pits in the firmament
i remember smeared galaxies over Indian nowhere
the grief will eat me up
a fire, a flame to the pages
it is killing me
oxidised memory
i want the stars back