Keeping screws afloat,
on an unclear sea of doubt.
A dusty lighthouse.
While they dance around,
the hounding mist chokes my throat.
A well-known misstep.
And while I step back,
the lighthouse starts to crumble,
waking up the screws.
Should have been enough,
but they didn’t stop turning.
A failure, once more.
Eyes inside of screws,
that see behind the Ash tree.
My end keeps turning.