smoulder
there
is a desperation in me to cling
to every taste and every
touch that was not there before --
an impulse to set my tongue afire,
to prod my soul into waking.
for in the blue mornings 
there
is a subtle creeping of cloud over
my eyes that was not ever near
before and i give it less mind than
spiderwebs as the day grows weary
 
we are a funny species, one
that gives no heed to our aching bones and
bodies
hearts, veins and arteries
fingerless wisps of ghosts from
tomorrow brush my
palms as i lie,
as i truth;
as i join in commemoration of an
entirely forgotten fantasy — or,
rather, my being.
 
a stream of conscience would
take on the form of a
shifting river, i think hopelessly 
 
willowbank hollow spills her secrets
and 
there
i find myself yearning
find myself riveted, frozen
with the numbing 
sensation of
sensation.
there
is my discovery/lying in the pit of
dusk, the rods and cones of a
sunset broken
 
– towers fall, 
too many flames light with no
sympathy
 
(my god)
my ghosts
they still whisper near the river spinning
tales of tomorrow 
prod my soul and its 
ruins in jest, or
perhaps not so; humbly weep to
things i cannot imagine seeing
in colours visible
to these rods and cones i 
am unfortunate enough 
to 
devastate myself with
 
and
 
they ask me what it is like
to be human
 
and
 
i close my mouth
for 
 
if the skies knew they would tell me