Silent, inert, neither breeze nor gale
can mar the mirrored gloss that hides
I have no wants or needs beyond the polite.
I feel nothing at all, my sun-lit day is night,
my reality only hinted at by the mental hum
of my hidden self.
I am taken by the slow smother of coarse weave.
There is no evil. No malice hunts me;
it is a tumble from an above I can no longer
reach, a simple fall but the drop is sheer and
into clay I crash, there to thrash a few pointless
moments long, a flail sure to fail in this Trickster's trap;
I can only wait for a fleeting unknown
to be held by sight long enough;
it will be an ordinary thing, that will hook me
with a glint of gold seldom seen, it will open the door on a million thoughts and dreams, constant, turbid, swirling, images, words, and themes;
yet there is but a blade of grass between relief and thief, this creature-creation will offer no reprieve, no middle ground and I throw ever more time to be devoured,
a gentle madness, but a madness all the same.