Muted Eruptions

I am a writer strung between two storms,
A form the heavens neglected unconstructed which cries.
Something searches my bones like a swarm
of bright bees arguing, their small wings ringing.

Under my collar I feel a sharp current beating,
counting the seconds it loses to keep.
I open my mouth to speak of other matters
and taste instead a voice crafted in sleep.

Every nerve becomes a rebellion,
sparking where sparks were not meant to grow.
The dark wears static like a million
insects singing in a field unknown to me.

Something in me keeps almost forming,
an object that scatters before it is known.
I stand in the middle of my own unraveling,
half signal now, and wholly unclaimed.

There is a bird trapped behind my sternum,
beating a code no ear can translate.
Each morning, I wake already burning,
already tuned to a frequency of fate.

Sometimes I catch it climbing up my neck,
a hundred faint collisions turned to sound.
I choke down the static like a fading note.
that keeps from touching the ground.

My eyes fill up with sudden explosions,
tiny eruptions too brief to trace.
I carry a chorus of broken devotions
scattered like sparks across my face.

I let the static build its cathedral
inside the hollow it borrows from my bone.
Somewhere a frail voice drops out of nowhere,
tries to break through and claim me as its own.

I remain unresolved, a space suspended
between two clear notes that decline to agree.
I am the charge some distant thunderhead intended,
calling, then falling, and refusing to set me free.