the signs

contemporary_existential_poetry.jpg

 

Perhaps slow age
was ignoring
the signs.

The signs
that came
very quietly
to dismember
the rhythm.

At first
they were pockets,
diaphanous moments
where magic appeared
to gently comb
the rye fields.

They became
more obvious
when light evolved
into heat
that could burn
memory
and bestow
endless ripple.

Somehow
at some stage
the stage
dissolved
leaving the plot
unhinged and atomized
like motes
without purpose
in the air.

At some point
every point
was connected
and any thing
could cause
everything.

The mind
became a boat
a vessel pushed
by the pull
that the tides
tied to the ideas
of time.

Then it sunk
but nothing died
the wave continued
busy with bubble
and burst.

Nothing but songs
instead of signs
were heard
the ear was as good
as any door
facing the journey.

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