Shapes of Motion

The days are the shapes of motion. Formations extending bursting outward. The majestic solitude of motion. Ghosts across the landscape.

Echoes and ringing and screeching halts. The drift you feel so deliberate. Deaths become marks on a timeline. Pain becomes a void sprung forth from.

The days are the shadows reflecting. More than just time or light. The motion ever-defining what it means. To scan or to plot the course.

I'm looking at my hand as a map. So coarse and worn so often used. I'm the jagged detail that is cast. The spade that plants the stake.

It Gives Lift

This time is the tiniest drop. Not swelling or throbbing. Just the crest of the wave. In and out the fields of vision. The only distractions may lie. Outside of circle or sphere. A figurative death. Billowing smoke and escalator tread.

With pinpoint precision we wait. Plotting out the movement. Or negotiating silence. Deliberately washing our hands. The lonely call to action. Random intervals and inconvenient. A figurative mass. Of the drowning and the surface.

Days In Frames

The week ended in messy tones. With pieces of past lives spread out. Like wreckage scattered across the highway. Paths were blocked. And those involved were left to stagnate. Wither off and die. Or to move on. Some are soldiering through across uneven lines. Pure pain or slow but steady drips of bliss. It's reviving. Oh how it reminds you of life. Some lost to sickness- internal or external. Collapsing or transcending. Those were shots too cold to call. As the pieces shatter into tiny little shards or fragments. Little pieces that cut your fingers as you gather them. Hardening skin barely left open. I'll call for you.

Shades of Gray Turn Black

The shades of gray turn black. Lonely and empty sounds of night. Of ships leaving their harbors. The rippled and broken waters of the past. Slowly become less disturbed as the journey fades.

Moments thought as beacons. Are divided into two distinct marks. Little souvenirs that move across a continuum. From the sentimental to mere nostalgia. From something shared into self defined.

The sounds of night amplify. So loudly through the song of loneliness. So resoundingly through the mirror of solitude. Through the strangeness of the movement. From blinding pain to sedate contemplation.

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Image from eishazinnerworld.blogspot.com

Cold Reconciliation

I buried a heart. a heavy piece of cold stone. ravaged earth in the backyard. a hole 11 years deep. the spade is a line of time. reading with the last marks left blank. the last pages are so blank. and light just trickles through bare limbs. down onto this vacuum. the space that occupies a life. is to remain uncorrupted. so uncomfortable to play pretend. new beginnings or some other bullshit speak. supposing some things not meant to be. they just play themselves out. a burning fuse that drizzles out and dies. lights that turn themselves out at night. taxing the circuitry. a sad backward glance at the scene. casting a backward shadow on.

This Is The Best We Can Do.

You know the feeling. It's a vacancy. Or something more like fait accompli. Let's just stare down into the abyss of the future. While veering off the road. This is what you work for. This was carefully thought out. Just the next generation's set of failures. Or tolerance through clinched teeth. Why not go for it? This is the best we can do.

We hang ourselves on a set of ideals. The rope is a chain and a line of communication. The chair is mighty wobbly. And the beams in the ceiling might not hold up. The black heat of the night stifles. And when the shock wears off. What's left are spots black and blind. Marks breaking lines of time. Marks breaking strides. This is the best we can do.

Quiet Scenes

it's a quiet scene here. the only light comes through windows. into the empty room where i sit. not quite alone and not quite fulfilled. solitude is forced upon me. in one week increments. time that's no longer time. morphing into a vacuous space. where i'm carving out a new existence.

freedom and mobility. never in sync with circumstance. they come in crashing the party. and leave me feeling wanting. the decision to process is made from somewhere else. calmly washing over my body. like a narcotic numbing the pain. the solitude is a small consolation.

green leaves swaying branches. wistfully remembering the ghosts who've walked beneath. i've layed them aside. i'll dream of them tonight. at some point they all fall and disintegrate. back into the stream. the movement toward total resolution.