Men in hats, running; the dream in anticipation
of the nightmare. A second sun swallowing yesterday’s
taciturn whimsies. No one looking, legs a blur on the treadmill
of prescience, without heroes or helmets big enough
to contain insecurity’s eruption. No standing up. No standing
down. Only a teeth chattering recollection of tidal pool
simplicity, and corporeality’s urge to return. The melt runs
far and deep, eating time, eating salvation, vomiting up itself
within itself, covering itself with thoughts of exceptions, and
redemptions, and little plans no larger than this. Transcendence
was never the motivation, always the excuse for patience. Men
die again. Others take their places while sunset beckons, unheeded.
metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/slow-burn-2/
