Inertia

Sunless conception

What more did I expect but to dwell on the precipice of a vacuum

I could shout my lungs to shrapnel but eternity is soundless, blackness

A slave to somatic dissociation  

I cling to dead flesh with ruminations of existence

Absurd, in the end I know its all hidden

Eyes vapid against the whir of stagnant light

I've found flesh and all its its flaws in gross disposition

Like pulsating organs claimed by the abattoir 

My thoughts are just ash in a frantic coil of wind

Not to be inundated with the burdens of dread

Just unclaimed by the nothingness in which I am dressed 

Empty planes and empty skies brush hands with eternity 

 

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

my favorite from you...it's asking "why this exixtence?"
it's just nothingness, and gross disposition...and frantic thoughs...and yet a poet will, "shout my lungs to sharpnel"---that is a fantastic image.

we shout loudly...as we write...and we brush hands with eternity

wondering if we will ever get out of this mortal coil...and find peace in the skies.