What kind of deity would venture to make contact so vital and us each so lone? Death is wistful longing. As such, death's been a frequenter of my welcome mat A letter's finish A final glance The light's withdrawal into stars' take-over And knowing that, in all of time, I'll still be only half a soul "Other half" my ass. 80 proof smears my thoughts like wet and recent ink But beneath it stirs a compromise Fully aware of myself; all else has melted into the walls, which sway like island trees On prayer's knees I plead: at least send me a bandaid to connect left-side to right Negated; so Bleed Many prospects, but none mend It's so much lonelier in my head I guess the gap remains. I guess one can't scour a wordsearch forever-- the 26 letters don't change.