Time streams trickle by, throwing
echoes of what’s to come
as they tickle my skin
Oh, my skin.
Icy lines plough across my carapace
and for all those scars I could not cry.
With each blink, each grasp
at the wispy blurry spray
as the torrent rushes on,
my heart falls behind -
What brave idiot would stop to breathe?
I am drowning in this sprint
and the salt of her is sweet.
In rushing current I was born and I will remain
until I am nothing more than a speck,
and then nothing again.
Heed me - I am nothing.
Clear azure, chirping birds, not unlike the
chattering herds of which I am a part.
Maybe better, for there is a melody to their art,
An order, where we fall
so far from perfection that we would come
to praise chaos
Rather than say what we are;
Heed me - we are nothing.
Reviews
No reviews yet.