There's the point at the end, at the very end when some fondness returns. The memories have become part of the tar still sitting at the bottom of your lungs. Fifty years later, you don't even smoke anymore. You don't even talk, only remember. There is one defining moment that remains condensed like the stem of your neck, like the roots of a dead tree standing lone in the flood water, like the corpse of an animal frozen with the ice in the lines of a curving road. Few would want this point. And nobody would describe it as pleasant, only that it is there and it is an all. It is unforgiving.
As for as rare and unreliable as this period came to be, that the moment right before....became the common law. That the moment right before--the span you'd name as a pinnacle. It was the fault of nothing but the passions you were conceived upon. The way these moderns describe a refillable hole. And the heart is nothing but a player in the scene.
In the third act is where the majority stews. Fortune is on the rise, and neither sky nor sea can be a determinant. The chain grows shorter as it wraps around the hands of two paths of eyes. Where and when fusion is warmer than fission.
And then a visitor appears as a mocker of dreams. It is then that you pause for just a thought to yrself. You say, "yes, this one ghost must be my friend."
And the sun can't believe in the Counter Clock.
No comments:
Post a Comment