There be the dark,
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The pausing fault,
The smile completing its turn around coiling speech.
Vicious are its claws
Burying deep within the folded sheets.
I spin in weak held dreams,
Hoping for a future to grab me,
to the cold unnerving passage of time through silk.
But I rot.
I stagnate and collapse,
Become the decaying vision of age which passes keen whispers to the beyond,
Talking tongues and babbling to brooks that can speak no more,
Nor could ever.
I am the apple,
Felled from the tree by careless hands
Who’s momentary joy flitted like a seductive wink through sheets.
Rippled with the giggle on the water,
Passing and dying and having lived for that singular second
Now to be thrown, discarded,
To cold and hollow earth. Only us are there.
The ravages of time’s petty nature,
Give and take in an eternally desperate struggle
Going on for so long it become the very essence of plateau.
Failed in any ideas of importance
Or relevance to the real.
And we are left behind.
As light fades and we die
And the sun empties itself in rings of engagement to a glad passing
Which we do not even notice.
Instead we hold on and begin our slow decent,
Numb and content in our tortured surrounds.
Until finally all becomes a stroke
A vague half something
That never really was
And was not worth what it could have been.
Remember my friend, despite all you are, all we are, the universe will tick on, long past our departure.