We’re falling with a company of clouds
part of that old storm of stardust debris
Focusing through that needle’s eye to mound
On the other hourglass chamber till you breathe.
A first breath that makes the pages unfurl,
white as a newborn’s pearly clear sclera
when they’re unveiled to the light-driven world
Pages follow sun and moon together.
Every word from stranger and lover sets
hungry ink to seep and sink in lines.
Axons string the page as memory nets
caught words wrinkling, till they fill black to the spine.
Then as the body unstitches to the winds
the mind writes in white on pages within.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
We’re falling with a company of clouds
part of that old storm of stardust debris
Focusing through that needle’s eye to mound
On the other hourglass chamber till you breathe.
A first breath that makes the pages unfurl,
white as a newborn’s pearly clear sclera
when they’re unveiled to the light-driven world
Pages follow sun and moon together.
Every word from stranger and lover sets
hungry ink to seep and sink in lines.
Axons string the page as memory nets
caught words wrinkling, till they fill black to the spine.
Then as the body unstitches to the winds
the mind writes in white on pages within.
Based on the hindu perspective that life is a book steadily filling with written memories till the pages are black and in death we simply switch to writing on them in white.
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