When all thinking's been thought
and inner halls scoured of reason,
you discover etchings left behind,
a palimpsest of lifetimes. And you,
a fickle flame, myopic against an
archaic refrain, press your body
into its rough contours to curtail
your chronic search for meaning.
Trembling fingertips, tactile dactyl,
pterodactyl, locate a folded wing,
a long spine serpentine, repeated
feathers' soft patterning. Lithograph
of lifting flight, stone writ arcanum
of gliding oversight lasts but a blink,
as you persevere in Braille for signs
in entrails, aeon's dark art and ink.
YOU ARE READING
Express, baggage and all...
PoetryObjects in the mirror are closer than they appear... Just when you think you've put something behind you for good, you look back and find it trails you like your very own comet's tail, lighting a path through the dark. Reading through these pages...
