(no subject)
Ante
Misunderstood is the Sun;
indirectly called witness to noises from beneath
our fingernails persuading us to lose control.
The scratched underside of a surface too thin to tear and
the children too proud to claim fault: the shaky pillars
that support our heads.
Public welcome does no justice as a firm handshake.
Denying the steady breath of life stands public silence:
an unappreciated gift and a keen reminder that our promises
are most frequently broken.
Our instinct delivers us three commands.
Listen.
Expand.
Interpret.
It is then that we begin to think.
...
De Relic
As our hands embody glass bottles,
we have willingly smashed them over our own skulls.
Even now, it is clear to see their contents
trickling through our hair and dribbling from our chins.
In effect, we recieve a few bitter, desperate tastes
of ourselves,
of past; present; post-present.
We briefly relish a preview
of the sacred grounds we are about to tread.
We've unsettled all relics from our grasp.
Every fingerprint is merged; drank right down
with every cell, every scar and every faultline.
Every memory: forgotten.
Every prayer: nulled.
Even in times of self-crisis, we remain unavailable.