Sense of the Past

Hunting hunted

there are dreams that feel like folded pages of a lost book

which needed re-reading.

Bold letters that I messed up with blind blots and hid between scripts. Straight out of the Babel without the pride.

Nights are deaf where you feel one voice treads over all others. This invisibility is a spark in transit, trying to tell life exists in bleak illustrations but making it darker all the same.

There's a present less safer than sublimity.

And a past working through fingers only in senses.

In you and me this midnight.

Of you in me till dissolution.