It’s the unspoken, the “dare I” weighing heavily, not the sudden craving
for coffee and a smoke, too long after a “reasonable” hour, for whatever this means
nor the chorus of juvenile toads creaking in the basement’s darkness – how do they get in? these small things aren’t belly beasts belying truths; it’s the waiting on –
the awakening into the Daliesque surrealism of a life present and unaccounted for in the steps taken towards a black chalk board, as you’re wooden lipped and all
formulas in equations, (5+3) divided by 2 = ?
that pressing slew of vocabulary words to master:
knowledge embrace transient conscience hapless
at such a tender age
these ghosting traces, outlined in white chalk, the dust is caked on your hands
standing before in silence, another grave marker, you’re witness
face slate cold, unforgiving seams – dreaming to find ” you’re as is dissolution” –
what kind of sentence is this? whose hand, larger than your own, hovers and holds
erasing, slow swipe by swipe, removing all tracings of it – them – you –
until nothing but filings are left, fine silk particles, and wherever your physical self
is, is no more, – yet you’re waiting on, a phone call imagined in the darkest hours and the moon is as silvery clear as those faces once were sharp, and you realize
you just don’t care –
but still pray, for all troubled souls, perhaps, for your own, the most.
© P.A. Kynda Palazy.
All rights reserved. 2018 –
What does it matter what form we might
survive in, if there is no one to keep us?
I don’t mean as a different kind of body,
or as fragments sifted into a glass.