Glowing time bombs, locked internally, intelligently growing
among the bare bones of a passive armistice.
Pacing across fossilized
corridors at the speed of ancient sound. Warm in the embrace of healing
tertiary layers.
Past, Fear, Far from Grace. Lost, Here, curious face.
I need you to search for me with the carefree precision of
an archeologist. Lost in dreaming, a surgeon to the earth, oblivious to the
iron codes of wastefulness.
This search is a joyful one. A treasure hunt. A labor of
love.
At the bottom of this well, sounds from the surface collect and
grow old, until the pressure of time gives birth to reflections.
Entrusted to the care of a family of crystals
that coax wax impressions of your immaterial face
on the other side of the mirror.
Today, I remove my mask and bury it. Another delicate time
capsule for you to extract, lured to the surface with the ringing of musical
chords,
That unravel algorithms of interpersonal cosmogony.
Spread these artifacts out on a table of fire. Untouched by
distraction as your guests pass by your door, as night gets darker, while
reality bleeds out into a soundless ocean.
