Others.

if you keep telling yourself that
it may end up one day being true

im the hero of this story
i dont need to be saved.

sublte suction cups that attach themselves to my thoughts feasting on my consciousness i just keep prying them off and looking forward close your eyes lose hope

This morning I had someone who loved me, and tonight, I don't

The dripping faucet,
careless with the love of gravity,
takes all the silence
with the pitter patter of the
cliché repetitive.

The humming air conditioner unit,
silent yet speaking,
saying simple yet sardonic things,
knowing all our reliance,
our rapture,
our range.

The front door,
waiting for the clink of the lock,
the boom of the wood meeting the
frame, the steady footsteps
walking side by side
into the palace that has waited
for you
for so long.

To say that watch bound around the wrist
of a man could somehow come together
on its own would be foolish, right?
Without the hand of a craftsman,
such a fantastic event could never
have occurred, could it?

Against all impossible and improbable odds,
its gears and numbers assembled in a single
flawless form with each wheel and spring
turning in sync within the structure’s anatomical
landscape. And to the steady heartbeat rhythm
of its own sufficient energy, its hands begin to move,
circling the numbers in an endless manner.
But as you watch the hands rotate, you see
that it’s spinning counter-clockwise. Time
is slowly reversing, then faster, it picks up speed.
Quicker, it’s rewinding beyond the speed of light
and nothing is visible, but the paradox
of blinding luminance. Time flips backwards
like the pages of an open book in the wind.
Then, it stops and everything’s calm.

The light is gone, but is replaced by a cool,
stagnant blackness. Shut your eyes, they’re
useless here. Try to imagine an age before
numbers, where the souls of men have yet to
emerge from the muddy banks of an ancient sea;
before the dust formed stones to be gathered up and
thrown; before a time of birth or a man’s last gasping
breath; before man ruled, before he laughed and
before he cried. When your eyes have closed—let go.

Forget everything you know, embracing
the stillness of a place where words like
“tick” and “tock” describe an unborn concept,
a place without words or literature or mathematical
equations—where zero amounts to nothing but the
number of stars in a sky which doesn’t yet exist.
Eons before Father Time, with his graying beard not yet long,
sat stroking his bristles to the beat of his heart—
waiting to turn his sandy glass at the right, precise moment.


Or perhaps a rose by some other name, yet
its sweetness just the same, like the archaic fables
told of Chronos that vanished long ago.
With his shining silver needles, he wove
the very concept of time into the minds of men
and women. His first stitch lasted only a second, but
was followed by another spanning the life of a planet.
From an infant lump of coal to a great bloated giant,
smell its fire, feel its heat as it implodes and as it dies
a million more are born. As the universe turns, like
the hands on a watch, Chronos continues on,
sewing up the seam in the fabric of forever.

In this spaceless, timeless nothing—one planet stands
alone, spinning in a sea of dead stars, its lives blue
and true. Might that be as impossible and improbable
as the idea of a master Craftsmen, an infinite Clockmaker,
an Architect of all we know and don’t, one so vast that
our eyes glimpse only the most minute of all grand indications—
like a deep green point, brushed by the hand of Seurat himself?
Is it possible that our hands have grown too weak to grasp?
Is it probable that our minds have strayed and our hearts left
along a path long overgrown?

While our ears to be so small a thing, yet
they hear the silent scream of a whisper through
an endless seam or falling sand, through fire or light
or an infant’s laughter or a grown man’s moaning.
Could it be that a man’s last understanding
is not the sound of a gasp, but of the whispering One?






*Super rough, it needs a lot of work still and doesn't come into it's own until about the third stanza. Also, I have no concept of line breaks and they are strictly there for aesthetic purposes. It is meant to be read as prose.

I ate the sandwich. We'll see what happens.