Crackanut

Put in a nutshell, and sworn in to life's
most unambiguous, and most sincere, office - death,
I flow, end on end,
I flow like a god,
entwined in her own misconceptions of space and time,
inside some loving hand.
The hand's the nutshell, cosy and obscure
is my recollection of anything before that was.
There is not a single line that I am not aware of,
this life's lines are all mine.
They constitute a network.
Be that sun overrun,
let switches all go blind, -
my childhood's most horrendous dream, -
my nutshell of a hand 's complete a shelter
as you might have nested, and left,
and keeps a hold on all things on the inside.
Matter grows old.
Time's own edifice, the flesh
succumbs to mutinous mischievers -
the worms, - they are not real,
but fears given flesh to gnaw on.
Nutshells break, and give in, when life's
spare vessel elevates despair of living
to another height - to rid us of ourselves,
the nutshells out in retrospect, -
everything, - not much really,
compared to the time and space it took us
to live it down, like larvas live it down,
by steps, and then, at once...
It's sound, it's colour, sometimes a thought, or two.
Some broken fragments of the safety shell
we deemed secure, and our own self.
Not really a revelation, though,
we've read of that before,
in turtles, sins and oaths.
Put in a nutshell, everything that grows, goes.
That's it, Crackanut.


7 апреля 2017 г.