what are we writing for
a question or a fear
a thousand words and have I said nothing
shuddering skews of obtuse verbosity
subtle thunders uttered in grayscale
such walls of word when I write for myself
what I've said I can't always say again
it's captured nonetheless
every time a finger touches the key
another sound extinguished from the tongue
the goldenrod hangs in the parlor
and though he's gone dad's camera is still latched to the willow tree
waiting to find its vicarious eyes, frazzled legs
click
and what have I seen
only now can I feel eons of starlight on the forest floors at 3AM
awakening the memory of particle glass spraying across the cement
can I breathe the scent of pine bark lichen
and distant cinders in spring
really breathe them
drifting over clean cut suburbs
shoeless in the field at nineteen
while the stars burn thoughtlessly
eons away from polycarbonate windows
as quietly as the birds move
flick flick
the heart from within its caudex
reaches across a river it will never know
galactic seas
across the beaches and barnacles
and farms of black oil seeds
slowing only for the next horizon
who are we writing for
a question or a fear
About the Creator
Timothy James Lane
Sea Ghost
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