Weekly Poem #196



Take a canyon flyover across the palm of your hand,

See the fault lines and rifts which settle there, so softly.

Rearrange them, give them new forms, examine them

And see what translations you can conjure in them.

There’s another language buried beneath your skin,

Whispering and sending out shivering, nervous tingles,

Telling you something you would wish you understood,

Should you ever digest even a hint of the true meaning of it.

You’re scrambling through tight tunnels, painting skylines

And rolling landscapes across the edges, and then losing yourself in them.

You’re jamming a bloodshot eye through a pinhole camera,

Letting the blurs sharpen into purposeful forms, and following.

Sometimes, you can see the cuneiform text scrolling across your eyelids,

Grappling with itself, skittering through the darkness, at play,

But then you fall back into yourself, back into those comfortable folds,

Constricted with a warm, familiar weight, and numbed into deep sleep.

One day, they’ll pick you apart and scan the liner notes, seeing it for what it is,

But you’ll be gone, a glint of light shrinking into the distance, as the words fade

And another dead language is stolen away, and committed to the catacombs.



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