The inner archway
crashes about me,
my arms out stretched, straining,
bleeding. A crushing negativity
chews and grazes, past masking collapsing
- a cauldron of rasping.
Seemingly still.
A bubbling, silent, squashed jostling,
for some stance without chance of
ever rebuilding - a cleaving of meaning
from dreaming, less believing
and
seemingly still
I call without feeling,
into a void without needing.
Is it a foul of the air to speak
of freedom, to speak of differences
to speak of reason? Obviously it is -
obviously - without need nor call
for expression or a digression -
a lesson for time to tell us alone
and when
seemingly still
we wonder past the moment we are lost
of this life, will we be then last to know
the loss of all we have was worthless,
without reason, within a meaning
unseeing of our feelings,
our believing, our everything.
While seemingly still,
I know we all churn over a devotion
until a revolution, until a clarity
finds our vision and we latch on for the distance.
Resistance. A mission.
A Christmas. An infection. Rejection.
It is eternity that holds us on it's knife-edge,
twisting and turning - one stumble, one fall,
one step out into ...