slowing, mottled irony -
used light through overworked clarity; eyes adjust.
one becomes too used to the aged dim din daily
- riveted to three steps ahead of
wherever the next footfall presents
what this moment implies.
spinning dials dwelling in lost translations,
from deeply grained to pristine surface.
beneath simple speech, whatever the words, his dreamer-voice
carries otherworldly yearning; bones stretching past illusion into fine clear
filament, windows bending like sheets caught in earth's
warm breath. quiet webs built for beauty, no threat, and wings
don't stick and there is no blood lust - just light
banded, filtered, carried on thin glass lines - elegant thought
without quest for knowledge. thought, because thought just
thinks
unwound from Chronos,
responds
in
beats.
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