Cold nights, heavy lungs.
Brittle fingers tracing the contours of a pregnant universe,
searching for a seam.
There's power wrapped around these bones
that I haven't felt anywhere else.
There's power wrapped around these bones —
a violent wellspring, frothing at the mouth.
Hands clasped in faithless prayer —
lift thirsty eyes to heaven.
Nothing's found but dying lights,
too frail and distant to illuminate.
Nothing outside of being
can be touched through finite mind.
Take your hands off of your throat —
you are nothing, you are everything.
What have I seen beyond?
Only what I've felt.
Is there is only this flesh and what we inscribe upon it?
all rights reserved