How and when is immaterial.
The infinitesimal permeates in sleep
when eyes remain open but far from waking,
a vision in slumber wed to transcripts
as rain gently strokes the surface;
the blurred becomes ever more obscured in time’s marching.
Yet the music pounds in eardrums,
supplanting static when silence abounds.
Stray glances burn deep into my desire to disappear from modernity,
examining the smiles I learned to treasure by the time they began to crumble.
This car is destined to halt somewhere.
There are boundaries to where thought can persevere,
locked into the restraints of human fallacy and the irony of affection.
If I held a hand up then to speak;
to infuse into the reality of decomposition,
whether memory would hold dear or falter is a question unanswered,
the only hints towards understanding embodied in the photos never taken.
Swallowed by impressions,
the color evacuating from the light,
what’s left to behold is an abandoned canvas,
the melted ichor of youthful imagery the fuel hindsight acquires.
Drawn up on the blankness is everything to nothingness;
a monument to the mobile immobile,
injecting theatrics to the unmovable past that rejects all advances,
though ever so inviting in the possibilities ever unexplored.
I can paint a road for which the memory can follow.
Departed from the current is where I am found,
chasing down meadows of bright flowers blooming endlessly
as if the sun held the moon in a stranglehold,
suffocating the dark from all edges of this condition of being.
It will never come to reason that the occurred cannot occur again.
Eraser stains only cause the dust of mistakes to resonate,
the murky fringes expanded across the page.
All that I could be then is what I can never meet.
Concentrated solely on the temporal archaic,
I stay asleep with eyes open wide,
willingly unaware I inhabit decayed landscapes,
shaking hands with the friends I wished never left.