Man is made by the void pressed tightly around him
A silhouette with an outline flickering on gusts, in flux,
Do you see does anyone see
The mirage behind eyes and hands from behind
That grip and shift the sky

The freedom to fly to fly
but also to lie and wither,
a copperhead on dead leaves
slowly slithering
its venom dripping teeth and flickering tongue
sliced by knife wrung quick,
as i fill my glass and take a diluted sip
fade fade to fade a crossing

Man is made by the weight
that props up a fading outline
of borrowed understandings
which binds us which holds us
and releases as the tension grows slack
and in bleeds the black, filling its glass
inside the outline where breath and fire once
passed and flowed,

Will I hear a scream at the beginning
of the ceaseless dream,
or will the taught string be cut in a slash
delivering me back from where i was brought?