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Still Beating, Still Leaving

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I tried to explain it

but my voice just fell flat-

and now

since I've talked to God and understand

I know that even if they find cures

for cancer

there are no cures

for this.

It's funny-

how funny can it be-

When the human bubble

rolls through the heavens

and witnesses the world changing

in photographic stills

like a slow slide-show


But photographs never shift,

just split seconds into pictures-

just tiny moments


like a pulse without a beat-

and we can't even understand

such angularity-

because we move on, still drifting

just God's drums beating.

I look in this house

full of faces, reminding me

I'm leaving something behind

when I close this life,

and yet I find it strange 

how the usual

became so unusual

because I still see

the supporting beams

streaming past the memories-

they just stretch across the ceiling

as if all they ever knew

was to hold up a house,

and encase a few hearts in rhythm

in straight lines, 

time keeping.

When we don't feel like talking-

or we're just prevented from speaking-

we're still saying things

we'd regret if we were living.

Our eyes just sit there 


a world we thought we knew

a clock we thought was ticking,

but the lines between heaven and earth

are blurred

when it is the blind who are seeing.

It's still true

that no voice ever breathed

or escaped a throat

that could talk to its own ghost

so it's still true

that our dead can't explain

to our former selves:

I am here

and still there

still circling around.

Comments (1)

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

Hints of immortality Mischa, is perhaps what we have left.

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