By Dylan Everett
One scales the night’s shards, wind in my arms like a son because I am far under myself, to hold the events of every encounter like a deep deer grey cloud, whispered into threaded fog as the sun rises, “A golden presence of uncertainty is born”, being here, run through with coloured bands, I then run up the layered blood of world, through to its vanishing point, beyond actual extinction.
Sincere and insincere, I am a disguise, others are a disguise, an absolute separation, that appears as one whole memory to almost grasp things but that are not present. An army that suddenly vanishes as does a friend.
My word in tributary sentences cascading into the sea of human trials. Too alone and crowded. Overwhelmed by imagination calling the shots, I sometimes fold into events like blue grey waves carrying a child I once was but do not remember. No noise disturbs this quiet constellation. Silence entertains any semblance of truth in fragments, for us drifting in the vacant restless hearts, to try to comprehend the debt we owe but cannot see, because we are blind watching fractions drifting, accumulating dispersion to any totality. We must concede we are at fault by our own definitions of humanity, but hold our sentences of time dear with others.