Left each chapter within us

I think I’ve been reading, entirely entrenched in
the local color life and death of rapid fire calamities,
alone in the bloodshed of a flower farm.

They have failed to revive me on purpose
because my story is a crafted fear of creativity
cast in an enclave of actors recovering outside of time.

I have a new and better means of travel and am saddened
around the arrival of writers and their unyielding wire fenses.
In fact, I have no use for writers anymore,
for their finely truncated, sharply sweating summary of years.