Twin spotlights move behind the blinded windows. The quiet fanlight burning shadows into furniture, the dark tracings moving and standing still. White walls and all that lay between menace stagnancy, disturbed only by the sporadic darting of a dying fish in its glass cubical. The disquieting silence pursuing, waiting. Something has broken as thing must break. When years ago this happy place would have been called a home, a shelter, protection from the biting, its emptiness now only germinates the seeds of uncertainty and self doubt. The change crept in between leisure of easy and the unknown. It happened when I had to learn to fly with clipped wings, and it happens to us all. I rock to the familiar sound of seconds lengthening my limbs and shortening my years. Although the eminent is clearly present and persistent, consistent in its timing, I choose to weigh the enigmatic and esoteric into the primary crisis of identity. And to bellow our protests, our prayers, we communicate with the silence that ignores the lips. Mentally we burn bright into ash. Then time to hide the eyes behind premeditated visions and old dreams. With words still parting lips and drying tongue, I allow the answers to slip until brighter mornings on another shore.
there's great imagery in this piece of prose. the layout is different to the regular 'poem', but that doesn't mean anything really. good piece!
