A handful of water - intrinsic, poetic -
Like it molded its wet form for millennia
There. Only certain senses can detect it
Like a whisper
A distant hum you feel, but its across the galaxy
A sway of the tall cedars or pine,
Or something of the kind, that slowly
Etched an echo through the landscape; claimed
Battleground backbones had scoliosis.
Our toes itched to meet the hyacinth faces.
The water slipped from our ravens dish
Into the faults and spaces of the bone core.
We had voices then - louder than whispers
But the rising tide drowned them out.
The caverns of eyes inspect
The ravens breath - abyss spreads.
They are ghosts - trapped in space/time -
Heads arched back like sparrow wings -
Appendages felled revealing metallic
Consistency. Fleshy yellow intent
With radio obtuseness.
Clouds begin to look like roads
To the distance, acute triangular visuals.
Bodies rest next to their missing limbs.
Pseudo-hypnotic impulse like
The semblance of biomorphic concurrences,
The currency of motion, charged particles
React without consciousness. Surreal
Reflectivity in a mass of conscious detachment.
The weight is weightless there
But the souls are labored.
We see surrounding and form
through a prism of shapelessness.
Souls react, faces just monitor.
We begin to see 1’s and 0’s.
The program is nearly complete.
The buzz begins to hiss, the radio
frequency is watery and weak;
It sounds more and more like a swaying
Sycamore, dancing in the wind
But no one pays any attention anymore.
It falls to the ground floor, silent songs
Remind no one of loss. The tongue
Absent in its absolute purpose.