there is a certain emotion, hidden
just shy of certainty. it persists, though
nameless, for those who named - all those
adams that cut the world apart at
harsh, unnatural, arbitrary joints into
things - were unaware.
they did not feel 'it,' so its existence
has been left unacknowledged
for the most part
but there are a few - a few that do
feel it and they often suffer a certain level of alienation.
only in closed circles do they speak
of it vaguely in slow circles
around each other in floods
then droughts as if there speech again fell from the skies
and hit hard; forgot itself like
so many amnesiac angels that wander here with
shattered mouth's and no way to shape sounds.
they do not always recognize each
other and that is sad; sad paling or darkened to anguish
- sometimes though
with much trepidation, they think
perhaps someone something
perhaps and so they sometimes
send benign codes out like a muddled whale
song and sometimes the code is
accepted and there is a response
response

sometimes the symbols are jumbled to begin
and while we strive to decode, even as we speak
we are lost at a loss and perhaps that
is the most important part