Copyright © 2019 · here for wonder by Gail Walter -- All Rights Reserved

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Moth Ink

July 28, 2017

 

 

It is an intense,
pulsing
place to be
inside the four walls
of this head.

 

Deaf and numb
from the whine
of unwinding
silence.
The absence of words
for experience.

 

Headful of cicadas,
lumbering night shadows,
the pitch of buzz
and throb
and whine.
Crouched at the edges
still with invisible life.

 

It is hard, in this head,
to decipher words, other sounds
that make sense,
to make sense,
of this unraveled swoon
where it leads.

 

I can close my blind eyes,
my hand dips and vanishes
into this apparent dark
and I follow.

 

Trusting sound, not words,
trusting silence.
Threading through the 0
of zero,
swallowed by something
that knows what I mean
before I do.

 

Slipping into the silk
moth-ink
that does not write,
that glimmers dark on dark,
past revelation
past knowing
stopping in the eye of
nothing.
No thing.

 

Blinking.

 

I am that.

 

 

Art work | Yazan at Deviant Art 

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WONDER

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. 

George Eliot

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