With each footfall the sound writs itself onto my soles,
shattering into shards that jump and echo, embedding
their history into my mind, their fractured light
quiet in their silence but violent in radiant, blinding
Their sound, when played, is wrenching and lined with sharp edges
and fading lines, charcoal pressed across a darkening sky.
Their sound, when played, is a gentle lull or violent waves
crashing, coasting from the Sun to my mind: physical null
Their sound, when played, mirrors the wind and the evening sky,
back when the waters were still against my mind’s hull
(everything spins out of control, a paradise lost)
Only the elegance of craft can colour the pain in
all its ugly wonder: how time folds upon itself and never stops.