Six thirty-four AM, planet-wide.
sometimes you write and it's word-death
nonsense but soothing yet broken yet
needed the requirements of pain the fucking transcendence of white searing pain
a vector the only point of focus because it's all gone everything everyone
sometimes you write to obliterate
and sometimes you can't and you won't and you don't
because the paper's too thin
the keys cut through or the pen smudges any ink you drop into a mess of black futile geometries
on those days in those dry and limping terrible fractions
truth may come windswept and
sprawling a primordial violence like a
fissure
opening
devouring
an end to all ends planet-wide
what good are words then anyway? when dawn returns to infinite silence
barren plains of dirt and stone roadways of no-cars and no-movement
to a quiet earth without peace
sometimes you write to craft a shield build a fortress even dig a moat without any bridge to cross
and bury yourself
the wind up bird
in its deep deep well with a pinpoint moon overhead
and you hope to
forget.
