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,
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.