prognosis

You imagine it as a passage, the hour turning untrue in your thinking, the numerals tumbling up the slow ladder on down. The slippery periphery, the halo and the sunspot, these words endure the vacuum. The thoughtless compartments amid the void, the residue of all the places dreams touch your skin. The avatar and the intercessor, the invalid transitions that happen just the same. Oh earth and everafter. Oh the songs of stone and sleeping giants. Oh claim and caution, oh covenant and cross. The dark recess of this thrifty midnight. The dull remnants of this reverent end.

The flower dissected still hides its mystery. Shredded petals and severed stems. This brittle bouquet of tooth and bone withering on the mantle. The slow decay sinks into the sugary water, the bees give way to flies. The shadows remain where the sun laid too long, the impressions left by melted flesh and rotted vegetation, all form surrendered to these fossilized thoughts. Peel away the pretty, the skull still glistens. Carve away the promise, the secret still is kept. The earth below a dream you haven't had yet. The sky above an abyss in your heart.

It is still the clock, it is still the wreckage. The morning star floating on the restless tide, the waves crashing somewhere behind your eyes. The hours pass as salt and shimmer. The hours fold into this ache. Another sundered moon, another shattered cup. The carnival arcade that bangs on and on. This is the place where language leaves you. This is the place where the stories stop. The backlit x-ray like some TV show. The prognosis you know is waiting in the next room. The closed door only there for the next entrance. You sit there, waiting for the curtain call.