Stop that.
Time to rewind.
This is just the red hand
Clenching to our demise.
Again and again,
These stalking shadows
Contain nothing.
But accumulated memories
Frozen and entombed in the burrows,
Of irresistible vacancies.
These shadows filter an echoed voice
So distant and empty.
Humming his plan in disguise
Behind the shady screens of mockery.
The lack of verb.
The absence.
The silence.
The momentary whispers
Trembling and capturing the smoke,
Releasing around the barriers,
Creating an ephemeral noose.
Taking me away with the disappearing sparks that fly.
Trembling upon this noose,
Knots tangle in white rope
With a twinkle in its eye
Woven and stitched
in the last futuristic glimpse
Of setting free
And finally letting go.