To the T, like a letter I must of looked, accented only
by an estranged alphabet who longed for the The
surrounded by what in a room with no roof made of why.
Night hung overhead with billions of demarcations for the end of a thought
So with them I just stopped and learned that one may never be still.
Even now we are some cosmic cursive spelling out a
fluid motion so concerned with dotting an i and thus it is forgotten what follows the pronunciation of the self.
A shadow come late of a lightness that we ought to translate but
cannot be contained with these inadequate vessels,
these symbols so riddled with leaks that when they finally reach terminus
become such tired tenants of exposure.
Like these letters I must have looked,
on a page made of mirrors who’s reflection all but apologized
for the failure to realize an ethereal hand tugging at my pen,
an incomplete cursive within without place, without name, simply without.
Not even.
Like those letters I must have looked.