There's something below,
That which we have no control
Underneath his feet
A puppeteer who pulls at strings above dreams.
Behind glyphic walls that transmute urgent calls,
Into echoes escaping,
Your childhood face,
reflections sway upon a surface unseen.
Out of sight,
In your mind,
But not above your consciousness;
In your grandmother's basement,
It was dark and smelled like iron rust,
and you were afraid of ghosts.
Lower than that,
Buried below the skeletons of your pets,
And your loved ones,
And your forgotten dreams,
Underneath the threshold,
Of our realm,
And the ethereal realms,
Surfing the eternal expansion of ever evolving perpetuity.
It is formless,
And yet has forms that we may recognize;
The silent stagnance of night,
That fills the air of a parked car,
The last dollar you place upon the bar,
The butt of a cigarette burning your lips,
The texture of pills as they slide down your throat.
Every resistance to internal warnings,
And so many other things,
The smile of a past love,
that straddles the periphery of dreams,
The seduction of nothingness.
All of these things,
And yet none at all,
To live is to acknowledge it,
To die is to embrace it. .