The urge to do nothing is overwhelming,
compelling.
I am motionless
I find myself halted.
Based upon a worry
a waiting
dominated by uncertainty.
I cannot go on
I stretch the mind
wander
wonder of antidotes
remedies delicious
in the knowledge
of their reduced life
span.
But not a cure.
Openings brighten despite me,
the ephemera of the street untouched,
lilting on its arbor
in its impetuous parade.
(I think)
I should not allow myself this dysania
in the spaces between moments,
lapses into stillness unforeseen.
In the warm response of wire
I ask for forgiveness.
Trapped in my own gaze,
it’s all I have.
(the purity of sorrow)
The floor pushes me skyward,
I run my finger’s tip around the edge of the afternoon,
Hope to god it rings out in response.
© A H Butler