Signal Decay

the air that's never clean
inhales an emery sky
filing down

front lines
in dry eyes,
grit spit in pursed lips,
static sting
cradling the barrel

motionless mountainside,
in valleys
that folded empires,
tucked behind closed eyes,

solidified

like worry stones
thumbed by restless hands,
a game of Go
on a blind board
with no liberties.

cupped hands muffled mortar
in vain,
its repercussion retained
under the swaddle
of internal organs.

dead space plays its decay,
heard by no one
but the stone.

one might say there's peace
if the heart
still beats,
but some signals
do not stop
when the message ends.

the murmur of what happened there
keeps breaking through

long after
the signal is lost.ㅤ
ㅤ

Cover photo URL.