Fl esh verses Thought
she plots a dream perimeter, a route composed of nothing
but detours, an imaginary line that goes nowhere
even as it returns to its origin. a death-inducing incident
shatters her mind's will to sustain motion. fragments incur, tectonics
press their earthy blades into all that once
consisted of streams; or had the ability to exist amidst motion.
blood would stop if asked for long enough to exit the body.
thought constellations no longer connect, the topsoil of warm memories
eroding. Frozen winds push forth, prompting her to pivot
away from the edge, she presses her fingers into the curve of her wrist,
and thinks of an inner space so solid, so stark and disregarded
are veins and silt icicles that press the blade, the particular event
so painful as to pulverize the spirit. She stares into space,
cavernous fields of nothing, neural pathways, a sinewy network
She touches their walls and recoils at their coldness.
foci center: a scene that plays itself over and over, they call it
post-traumatic stress disorder. a severance of her faith.
plummeted into the gorge of reality's lair-
she's awoken many times but could never shake
the notion that it was just a dream. Mother says "it is just a dream.
Go back to bed" and the doctor gave help in providing the perpetuation
of her own stable rotation, but the gas percolated up through the fissures;
afraid of ending, she is afraid of going within.
An eerie quietude settles, distills, like cobwebs
onto the chrysalis of gray matter. This must be a crescendo
of that which is too much to bear, she thinks.
It leads her far from the way she's been
step by step into the shadows. . . and beyond them,
where something glows through ancient and inward
blooming. Her question is, 'is there any meaning
in motion, even as it returns to its origin?'
and warm waves of heat wash over
fingers, her wrists, her veins. e