where do i draw the line?
like a tiger stalking forward,
ever faced with that invisible boundary;
careful not to rustle the brush
in fear that the prey will bolt.
but i do not blend with the grass.
i have no stealth,
and my joints are rusty:
squealing and creaking
with every step i'm not taking.
speaking with a comma
at the end of every sentence,
waiting for the silence...
but always there is noise.
white noise
frothy and silted.
when the night returns,
the monotonous curtain of space
like words saving you from solar rapture,
i will be there
melting, luminescent
(thick film of course).
for i cannot change my skin;
i will never soak up midnight
so well as you.
always in a bubble.
in that static cushion
of misplaced sentences
and misused vocabulary;
in that kingdom of bogs,
foxholes and trenches.
carried away
by a thread of semantics.
there is no future,
only moments
thrown on top of one another
like sacks of concrete
or potting soil.
:: smw :: 090303 :: 2154 ::
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