the years (written in May 6, 2009)

[neliuba_voronin]

the sky is a murky purple and
before all else darkens,
I should greet the refracting light
these last few minutes.
but the air is hovering and
pregnant and the thickness does not allow for
even a muffled yelp
and even if black holes were enough to
suck the words from my mouth
the noise would be lost amongst
the rest of the clamor- the

imploding matter or
the stretching of ininity [it is
impossible to be heard when
everything is so
loud]

maps cover the walls and
being surrounded by the whole world while
lying isolated amongst squalor has
made me a widow of this
gyrating earth.

there are motions at work.

and while the winds heed their daily routines and
somehow manage to deflect enough to
pass through the window,
there is a sudden stillness to those
crinkled pictures on the carpet.

there is no sense in keeping them:
it is as useless as keeping
a dead dog

they sit and
rot and
will never again
make a sound.

it feels strange now,
recalling the glory through these ragged folds,
now only splattered and stained with the
guise of Yesterday.

the years were mine,
but it seems all we have in common
these days is
regret.