(no subject)

[xnihilo___]

within the context of my trembling heartbeat,
you move like a curtain by an open window,
from my mother's dreams into my arms.
the blinding light of god behind you, permeating, running through you,
keeping you transparent and a beautiful angel white,
and yet there is a breeze outside that window,
it keeps you dancing,
(it keeps you alive).
and without this breeze you would not move towards me until your fastenings began to strain the window frame.
this breeze is the last gasping breaths of the human soul, human "nature,"
the very same that sailed columbus' ships,
and now, with every breath, this nature chokes on the technology of an age it inspired.
but that's what makes it human, only human, only mortal, only dust in the
sands of divine time, but this is what dreamers do;
we play in the sand -- we weave our fantasies from poor thread.
we make mountains out of molehills,
pyramids out of princes.
poems, out of
breakbeat hearts? or was it broken heartbeats?
a pounding rhythm to keep the time:
one-and-two-and-three-and
and-and?
four.

we are lost in a moment.