Between the ones and zeros,
lingering within a yellowing sort of cellophane haze,
a whole number is born, expanding the horizons,
colliding, smashing into particles of thought,
tells a story:
between here and there exists a place,
a certain locale - a state of mind,
a kind of blind metaphor for peace,
an abstraction of space, or merely the misstep
of an old man's clumsy gait
in between right and wrong i found myself
fumbling in a fugue, a fog that had not lifted,
it spread its arms about me, though never
quite touched me, then into nothingness it became
saw-dusted, a memory
and i in limbo (some time was spent)
i yearned for the feeling of not being kissed,
i, not seen yet somehow sensed,
i, not alone but always missed,
in a crowd...
i am the dream you had on the eve of your death,
(the one that woke you, compelled you to write these words in haste)
of a smallish blonde boy who spoke in tongues
and whose flesh begat an emptiness,
a wet dripping kind of hollow mess,
reflected in a pool of his own benevolence,
did u come here to find this - this nirvana, this recompense?
