Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Solitude Receding....

A stair not made hollow by footsteps thinks of itself as only something boring made of wood.
Franz Kafka (The Blue Octavo Notebooks)

Have I become
"something boring"
made of meat,
invisible to others --
to everything save
for despair?
Do I dare
to imagine this life
less unbearable?
Or another -- not attainable? --
in this existence
where I am sentenced
to flesh
in this city
that looks like amnesia:
deserted wasteland
without the expanse --
the color of ash.
At night,
I meet my temporary death.
With the sun's light and heat
I am confined to solitude
where I hear my own breath.
And the beat
of my own heart.

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