Strawberry eyes drawn grey,
awoke in nights ruined black.
Awake, roused from cobwebbed dreams,
and so little light to navigate the spongy floor.
A diffuse beacon reminds,
but so much faith required
to move through the thickened air.
A tickle, a quiver, a bowed back stands rigid,
and so small steps quicken—
then STOP.
What is this unseen motion
running like static charged fingers
through bed-sheet stamped hair?
And then there’s the thumping,
rushing from chest to ear,
throbbing like a conqueror worm
feasting on coiled grey tissue:
run and it will chase.
The beacon reminds:
chase and it will run.
And so movement comes with reluctance,
the cloying atmosphere
gummy and resistant.
Yet something stirs the solar plexus,
pulsing out,
grappling with some undefined point
near the beacon,
things become clearer.
This unbearable push and pull,
so the pace is perfect.
The moment blinks blindness from its eye,
nothing so raw as being here now.
And this notion robs the past of its future.
Be here now,
as if there is a choice.
