Through an aspect of love,
the slowly meteoric evolution of the mind
can carry some credence to the theory that we each arise from dust-
a distressing concept for the corpus ardoris humanum
is in reality a glimpse of early ontogeny for an almighty god-
A taste on the collective tongue, lolling about as a liquid licorice,
firing all the appropriate synapses and nerves,
whether we understand or not.
In reality, though,
all music is made of voices; some real and others imagined
from instrumental and percussive personalities.
Ever clear and ruminatory,
whining betimes and always whiskered through and toothed like the wolf;
each song is a pause before charging the picket
because humming the tune as remembered
might mean survival for another day or enough time for the Worm
to start at what heart remains.
As tears melt from the window down
and onto the clear space where I see the world and road,
it’s odd how I can feel the void and blackness at the edges
just beyond the apathy, the criticism, and everyday worry.
It works like a fog,
entering the barely-open window of the Lord,
and seeping into the dusty corners of this often cold, damp room.
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