Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Threading Tangibility

A marble, shimmering,
rolls across every ridge,
sweeps between every groove
of an aging floor,
in a house that fades.
bleached to the palest form
of some semblance of red.
Sweat glides down my back,
through my spine.
I'm hot, dry
from the heat of it,
this house,
this chair.
Just when you start
to doubt,
to fall into eternity,
the air burns,
and you feel the fire.
The world has a thousand pictures,
but when you are effected
you are here.

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