Beyond the end of the road
A long road goes dead
Fluorescent white lines fade into the abominable tarmac
A beating stops.
There is a quiet wailing as though a person is screaming underwater
Sharp and poignant
Like the frequency of that noise would be
If someone measured it -
But they won’t.
Bleak and terrible
As though nothing can be contained in a memory
Hands snatch at the air until the darkness overwhelms
And as limbs cannot be seen
Limbs are lost.
The moaning continues
Low and long, rolling out in gusts
It comes from you.
You who has lost contact with your hands
You who cannot translate your own language.
A half-awareness threatens your sensibilities
The overriding blackness begins to shine
Dots of light
And then corner kisses corner
You cocoon yourself about this pain
It becomes you
The sound is all you have left to preserve
A feeling that your identity has been - not stolen –
But lost, worries you
Lost things are not usually found.
Simply felt like saying them together
You once thought to remember
But now you think to forget
The more you scratch into the walls
The darker they colour
Something pushes into the room; cold and clammy
You know it is a thought
Because you used to be able to classify them
And yet you can see it in front of you
To see a thought in the air
You feel it spin
As the air moves across your-
Well, not your face
You do not seem to be in possession of such a thing
In fact, the more you think about it, the less certain you are you know what one is.
Either way, you can tell some air has been displaced
For the sound wobbled once before continuing its perpetual hum
There is a wriggle that disrupts everything
Something is almost revealed
It is so dark and the noise is so loud
You wish you could make it stop
But you’ve forgotten how to talk
You cannot remember what that means
An idea to grasp at something comes to you
But you find yourself dumb, defenceless.
The noise becomes louder
A physical squeezing.
Emptiness with it
The sound has stopped
A failing of comprehension perhaps.
Although there was no light, it grows darker
How can that be!
The comparative overwhelms the superlative
A complete detachment
You become a word
Which cannot last as there is no hand to pen the letters
Nor eyes to read them
Lips cannot form them
Ears cannot hear them
It should be terrifying
A nervous butterfly floats before you
Evoking giddy remembrances of anticipation
You have reached your destination
Another memory flaps
Oh but if you could collect them all!
Butterflies spill into the air
They come from you
Orange; gold; turquoise.
You remember everything
Each step down the road that brought you here
And it feels - oh it feels – it feels wonderful.