We are
Always
One revolution
Of mind and emotion
Behind each other.
We fall
In infinite circles
Around equilibrium.
Stuck in orbit, we
try
To solve
A free body problem.
And this separation
Is delicate.
Stretching us to comfortable stability;
But
Does a snapping string
Make a sound
If there's no one around to
To hear it?
...
For silence you art, and unto
Silence shalt thou return.
...
And time and sleep shall heal,
As always, too much;
The great lobotomizers.
...
The turtle crawls into herself; alas
That fate is an artist, not a logician; alas,
That I touched too much.
Always
One revolution
Of mind and emotion
Behind each other.
We fall
In infinite circles
Around equilibrium.
Stuck in orbit, we
try
To solve
A free body problem.
And this separation
Is delicate.
Stretching us to comfortable stability;
But
Does a snapping string
Make a sound
If there's no one around to
To hear it?
...
For silence you art, and unto
Silence shalt thou return.
...
And time and sleep shall heal,
As always, too much;
The great lobotomizers.
...
The turtle crawls into herself; alas
That fate is an artist, not a logician; alas,
That I touched too much.
3 comments:
Alas that what is touched can be untouched,
Alas that too much heals,
Alas that music noisily disturbs silence,
Alas that the circle has no end.
For a moment's pause, what would I not give?
Only if the touch wasn't too deep,
And the heart could ever be healed,
And the silence hasn't deafened you already.
Come come, let's not be immature. Let us send each other exclamation marks until we suffocate and die under an avalanche of cheerful moving-on.
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