velvetmedia

the space between each hour

is almost a decay,

clock conspires in awful silence

mirror reflected hands

reverse that moment

when that realm of waking

is at it’s edge,

straw taste upon the tongue,

as on curved eye

darkness and it’s folds descend

tattered fingers reach upwards

to a point where ceiling once was,

a wicked frost is felt,

gravity in a raw form

will not resist

a man with scattered thought,

chilled he must

throw back cotton anchor

wrapped taut about body,

it would be a while before

the yellow spikes of light

would transform as morning,

bone chimes fine resonance

in the soul,

darkness a swell pushed aside

dreams skirted and lost,

nature would not find any tears

if he fell soundless to the floor,

beyond the door a reprieve

and a new vast openness

spread as a cold

desire

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