by Nate Aeilts
Is there so much? Can such a thing be? The hollow force working on my brain, With such a vicious grip as only the naked mind can have, Sucks and pulls between the synapse and the soul The essence of the conflict, the rise and fall. That is, plastic hands rising from the buggy. And with as much breath, the warm wet vacuum, That fine breadth of mystery, tragedy, and hope, Issues whispers, echoes, shhh… So much layered—the adjective, the noun, thing and promise— In the vault beneath the sky. Open. The cool dawn air on the dewy green, And in the sun I breathe.
AFTER THE PAUSE VOLUME 1 ISSUE 1
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