The creek rattles on,
it sounds like my keys
I close my eyes and try to pretend
it reminds me of whirling trees,
but instead a burning bursts up
in the center of my mangled mind
and I splinter into cracks
as straight as computer code.

A memory hits the fryer
and simmers in a way
that's hard to describe
when your senseless inside,
but a dream drifts through
of this creek in summer
surrounded in life
and a mass of shells
straddled to the sides,
their hands and mouths full
of electric light.

Then the rain fell
but nothing got felt,
just for a moment
everyone twisted neck to sky
as if they were surprised
to notice that they were truly alive
and a world exists
without their consent
and a creek continues on with purpose
even when they're not there
cooling their toes.

How could a materialist care
when the human inside dies,
we only hear whispers of bone:
"It bends like a branch
and it's bare and white,
softer than stone,"
but that's hard to believe
so just turn to your phones
to melt mystery away
and pretend the water
is simple
and it don't matter
when its reflected in light.

I shutter
as I try to feel
flesh beating in chest
and wash my feet in the water,
while I wish to leave the benches
and fall in the flow
so it could pull me down
and soak my shoulders
and it'll feel so good
to be enveloped in feeling
even if the feeling is harsh.