Future

It's not something
that can be spoken so easily,
when each word has
pages of years and
hours of sentences
behind each curve or line
of thought and breath.

Each moment in time
carries invisible threads,
silver and red and
more silk than yarn,
woven into branches
and touching like fingers
of one who's forgotten
all the old bedtime stories,
or how to listen to them.

It's not something with a shape
or language of human tongue,
but rather atmosphere between eyes,
breaths between words,
shoulders and wrists turning,
jawbones and palms and ribs.

I don't expect things
to start making sense,
or that they ever did,
I'm just hoping
that it's not just me
who thinks it,
who's willing to
say anything at all.


Recommended Listening:
Our Deliverance - Indigo Girls
Monument - Mirah
Futures - Jimmy Eat
World World On Fire (Live) - Sarah McLachlan

Notes: This poem (and one of the next ones to be posted, Shift/Gradient) is about a scene in one of the sequels to Awakenings. It's... a very strange conversation.