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Blindness
July 22, 2008
The metamorphosis is not complete,
Feeling with fingers frozen still.
Time stands on a fragile ledge,
With coffee cups and golden window sills.
Phases of dark shadows will pass.
A soft whisper on the neck lingers;
Liquid salt overcomes the push,
Underneath alien lights, surrenders.
Pull at the locks and melt into eyes.
Strain at the touch; turn out of nothingness.
Feel unto everything and with Everything there's nothing:
But a shallow moon, in the black hole of Blindness.
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