Nerves aren't really a bundle, they come each raw
each with their throbs. Blotting out consciousness from time time.
Edging out reality is no child's play. But hold the shingles dry in your palms
till they stone you in turn. And the sea-salted air of intimacy steams into half dreamt starry nights.
It becomes a habit sometimes to steal before it strikes the clock. It becomes a habit too to talk under the hollow lights.
A habit to respond and love when you are invited to mossy quarters before your initiation
Till you let the tune take you out of your sight.
Till verses are conversations are routines are where you oblige.
So your nerves relax, relax and contract or keep changing the rhyme and missing the flight.
Don't let them search for the workings between impulses and meaning
Lest the rawness finds none of it at all to court words from indexes while they struggle and fight.
The clock will strike the beat and with time hear it chime.
While you give yourself to the habits of others, habit your habit to look within and thaw.