Metres cannot be measured by
marked wood sticks.
Hours cannot be defined by
movements of a timepiece's hand.
Pounds cannot be related by
pieces of molten lead.
Distance, time, and weight all,
they exist in this world as we do,
breathing and sighing,
expanding and contracting.
We take no notice of their malleability,
until their breath knocks us off of
our once-sturdy stances,
until their sighs suck us into
our own deepest chasms.
They expand now between us.
I cannot help but notice.
Distance rips the fragile bond between us,
tears my tether to sanity like
so much wrapping paper.
Time opens its vulgar maw,
draws down the things between us,
swallows them whole like
so much comfort candy.
I contract now.
I cannot help but do so.
I want everything to stop,
I want everything to reverse.
Undo this damage to me, it is too much
for anyone to bear. Perhaps
if I draw time and distance closer to me
then everything else will come as well.
But from my contraction escapes the last memory,
the last hope. With all that I have,
I will it to cross that widening valley,
to make one last tenuous bridge
that I can cross if for only a
short time.
As the thought flies over the ravine,
it turns into a weight of infinite lead,
too heavy for winds to carry, for some
wing-thing to support. Its gravity
pulls me in as I fall
into the expansion
over, and over,
again, for-
ever.
copyright © 2008 Sean Shannon