I have a place kept locked;
where your shadow
contains my hidden movements.
Unknown to you, I rest there, waiting,
perhaps playing in the anticipation
I'm hoping you sense
the activity of wonder
through the tone of my voice
when I'm speaking of all the things
you hold dear - the things I'm hoping
will be in your power to destroy.
Slowly the clockwork ticks
into resolve, directing the cogs
in new alignment,
ticking down the hierarchy between me and you.
That bastard, that bastard!
The wilderness- that breathing,
keeps traces of me
in laughter, love, hate,
and always, always, repeating.
Repetition - that blasted relief.
The dark spot, the one held for me,
no longer holds your comforts.
All has left,
as was expected.
But what has been kept?
Deep, beautiful becoming.
For what you were unaware
was a signing of a contract
to make you not a person
but a process,
Literature, art, science, travel. Writing fiction, non-fiction, poetry. Always wrestling with language.
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