It pierces.
The wound left in passing
Becoming smooth and cold,
The heady scent of iron,
Copper-toned rust,
Simmering there
Upon opened chest.
Complex simplicity,
Nature yet unknown,
A single note, a word,
A fear, unbroken silence.
Fleeting thoughts
Dance away
From the minds net
As the unknowable
Is known.
To step willingly
Is a strange thing.
Heralded by a mix of courage,
Wild desperation and
Utter blindness.
Eyes remain shuttered
When facing the void.
There is nothing there to see.
To long for silence
So deep and pervasive
That one begins to
Cease, the mind
Quails, frightened
At its own insistence.
Actions not our own
Are then uniquely ours.
No comments:
Post a Comment