Ripping through translucent reverie.
Splitting inside shakily sustained sanity.
Stillness that is a rock in the core of an inner world
Stillness that empties the mind of buzzards, beating, banging and barging the very beautiful parts of who we think we are.
It is in the whisper of the forgotten lyrics.
It is in the rush of bodies, a forgotten sorry.
It is in the dry eyes at the life lost.
It is in the orgasm that never comes.
It is in the missed beat of the missed breath pounding down the path on a crusade to make your body cry the very fat that keeps it alive.
Listen for the stop.
There is always a pause.
A solace that can tear open the heavens and let the light flourish.
Tremor felt in the lightest touch of skin to skin.
It is in the detail that you missed as you wander through the vacuum of the world in your palm.
Wildfire. Thunderbolts – stillness.
There is calm in the eye.
What the fuck are we going to do when the eye is closed?