Don’t let them fade.
A million seeds, a million more:
the boy-child sown and scattered.
The same big band, the same man’s voice.
I need to learn to look, to gaze, at the pitch
of the passing ‘tween the tunnel’s either end.
Time-warped scraps – the dream continues on,
unphased by the approaching of its limits.
Wearing, proud, the wind that weaves without,
and now within,
the wistless soul that falls out free across the shoulders.
And here I am in that moment,
leafing through the scattered others.
And so it begins again, the collection of dust.
I have, for so long now, found so little wild, so few pockets without their shadow, and so few of the wilder, natural prey. They are not within my grasp.
Trying, some desperately, some half-heartedly, to weave themselves back into the web that they severed themselves, at once with vicious intent and complete indifference, from.