pastiche of self

the softness of subtle under
tones sounding silence the
hard friction of a loud mind,
a tangle of confused tunnels
built upon waves tearing asunder
solidity, stability
is only
this vacancy, within.

a feeling disquiet,
ordinary
like disrepair.

there exist no
words for this
existence. a swelling
tongue to touch thoughts
that embrace that
final exactitude, the
heavy humidity
of descent, the unconvering
of the forgotten
inside. inside
is everything the outside
could not keep
away from us.

a lurch, a
trundle, some
stumbling disarray.

this fog in a mental
trapping, the crashing
reality through the windows
of the mind. losing itself
as circles becoming
other circles, as time
tears through all
dimensions, an obliteration,
as if one's self is
becoming oneself.

to live is to die,
to scorch water,
the frozen fire held.

as bones are buried
beneath the skin, inward
we are a collapsing, a
drowning down to who
we become, staring our own
former deaths in the face
of our distant depths.
these are the ways
of those who think, feel,
love, beyond even those
meanings, as meanings
are given unto the shroud
of misunderstandings yearning
to be understood.

a self pastiche,
as a trace of life,
a future becoming.

the way our lives' present
is a cast of the past,
the shape of shadows
in the form of an echo.
we are never who
we are when we are
who we were, except
i cannot be
me without you, and
you've never been me.
but here we are.

drawn into circles
upon circles, leading away
from ourselves toward ourselves.

this is how we find each
other: within ourselves,
a pressed in condensing
like dancing to the silence
we inhabit so loudly.