You have decorated your space with things
of relevance, nothing that does not signify
aspirations to a better time; there are memories
in each. How you felt, what prompted the recovery
of a gift, the untenable medium of deriving
comfort through being surrounded. It is not
a child’s idea of an insular fort, you are by now
far beyond such measures.
One day the tedium will set itself off surprisingly.
If you are to have any hope at all, you will deny
this is happening to what defines you. You might
first explain it as an itch, not the sudden unbearable
weight of feeling under such pressure
that you cannot begin to explain to yourself
the agonizing drift toward obsolescence, except
you know gravity has its place too.
Probably beyond metaphysics and even the reach
of Rumi’s wisdom, it’s the north pole shifting
a few untenanted degrees, the equator tightening its belt.
Signs you read of some grand finale inarticulate
amidst all spheres of influence. Perhaps inner
paralysis or a lingering stretch of being deaf will become
your temporary reply as you bargain
for the island of oasis to answer with the ecstasy of enlightenment.
Since what really matters, and this is all about your
new-found awareness of reality and the metaphysical,
is inaudible in the lengthening stillness, not what is spoken day to day,
amid the memories, their representatives suddenly bereft
of a familiar charm, almost threatening; telling you, you’re
one of us now, where else could you belong:
your answer is the music of silences, out alone
among the star-shaped drape of night across the outer planets.
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