Few hours, like these, end with slow doubts.
Louder cracks.
Damn the frozen art
of acting sure.
Listen in.
Of that impatience.
There's hunger for mighty talks growing inside,
a tale on victors
victories and their lure,
and the vices so hungry by boiling plates
grounded coyly
on the silent floor;
there are
heavy chants at midnight
by low power lamps, almost dark
of half visions across an empty corridor.
Then there's a dance
near the bed and the bin;
into where we dump our smell and
our soul
gasping for breath;
there are nails that are more like claws
cutting so many into pieces, they tore
old beds with liquid iron
in every story
each morning, all times , forever more.
These nails fall straight out from
history of our ages
into the birth of newer stripes, better props for all that who roar.
They tell of an Heideggerian impulse.
The magic. The myth.
It is the wisdom of an infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing, it's lack, it's pain
and it's cure.