it's not the transparency of feelings
but the perspective from within gray clouds
and the slow wistful weening -
it's not the fear of being alone
but being immediately alone, indefinitely
I could say I am bereft of care
which I am,
but in a sense I could also say it isn't
being alone that I fear as much as myself
and the perspective of that self without
any other insight besides my own-
which is to say, I fear my perception
the inability to be in a way that is expressed
expressing every intricate ramification of an
insignificant existence, a bleeding that gushes
because the pressure within is greater than
the outward flow between the lips of torn thighs
the cut, tear, cleft of reality revisiting the externally
binding definition of my existence.
knowingly saying a misunderstood thing while
unable to change the outcome. uselessly knowing.
Useless.
like the banging of little fists on a glass pane
revisiting the gruesome facts of reality, the death
of meaning, the end of caring...
the patter of intransmutable want, desire, hope
against the frigid formality of structures
the classical, wanton necessity of survival
or is it time, and space - spacetime, timespace
a sad little face, scaped by tears and frustration
in the form of bloated cheeks, and dilated blood vessels--
the searing of cool tears against cooling cheeks |
Submission Name: vitrine
