In the hollows of mind there lacks
words to assign. Unstimulated, the pulse of a universe before
birth. The waiting of a thousand birds hang in the air like frozen
black icicles stranded before a new sun appears. The premonitions
flash against the dark mind like stars blinking out from light-years past
a mimicry of the future to come. One eye staring forward, one looking back
suspension of not just belief but breath and heat and tone. Deafness
struggles to move. Legs now skins atrophied. Turn around and memories
form. The dance of sweat and hair beating full with life ecstasy.
What does it take to touch those moments again? To force
new air into old rock-hard lungs? To feel nothing
anatomical. Searching space are visions of collapse seeking
a home in geographic time. And both eyes watching destruction land
there is nothing to do--nothing at all to feel because there is no sense.
All hope pulls time in