Once, you were timpani – a low rumble
Along the spine; you were mine. But I
Never truly considered possession, how

Do you think we are from time to time
Receding? We often strive and strive,
Reaching for creation. Why is it not
Probable that we fall to event horizon?

Then, I think here no despair may follow,
Nor comfort. Here, the vanishing point
Disembarks and sits heavy upon the chest
And fragile organs within; even the skin
Crawls away.

We begin to imagine phantom loves
And phantom touch, instruments.
And what music apathy starves, what
Disappointment and what false support
From much closer objects.

A mirrored surface repeats and repeats.
If you listen, you many hear the glass
Crack and fracture, stress concentration;
And distant drums marking time.


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