I can hear the sound but can’t see the end,

Lightning in a beaker,

Sight for the seeker,

And deep breaths in the night,

Like decompression for the mind.


Intentions are cut,

Like the bends they flush out,

With time and intensity.

The alters – lustful, fickle, and bored,

Beat their hands in my chest hard,

Relentless as the sun.


I can feel the moment of impact and lift,

Though the source isn’t seen,

Like a voice on my shoulder,

That begs me to sleep,

And asks me to play,

For forever.


When I think of the days that I spent stagnant,

And the deja vu is the same as when I slept,

It attracts me to reach for the things I find most redolent.

When you open your mouth,

The atmosphere charges,

Gathers with static and fate,

Nothing’s the same.

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