the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Missing Hands

Under house arrest we are chained to conscious birth,
The primal intent that makes us shoot first,
And answer questions later.
We ponder the still life still briefly alive
As the freshest memory we could keep
Before its taste dried up like stale wine,
Tabled like every idea that spills into my lap
And pulls me to the lip of my patient seat.
What if the edge were high enough
So that I would be safe to jump?
Would you be below or above?
Would you think that it were enough?

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