Hypnagogia*
As you walk among us,
in the flat sun of an overcast day,
you throw no shadow. You carry it
with you, drawing light
from everything you pass near.
The world pales.
Ink drawn from pages, you paint
absence onto day. Every face
resists sight. When, unseen, the sun
slips in its climb, you feel it
and cry its hidden name. This answer
is another you know. No need
fulfills us, the parts unmade beneath our skin
until just appearance remains
and all that is
at last is. We have no breath
for a second guess. We have
no will to stare. In the last moments,
just before color loses its way,
black leaves open on the trees,
and it’s night.
Filed under: Abstraction, Aesthetics, Chaos, Charles Baudelaire, Dreams, Eschatology, Extinction, Hypnagogia, Ideas, Knowledge, Musings, Oblivion, Pierre Reverdy, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Science and Art, Surrealism, Thoughts, Time, Writing
D
last three lines are wow
Thank you. There’s something creepy about the way these creepy poems find themselves, but I’m having fun violating my usual obsession with form, letting the poems develop on their own terms. —D
[...] Hypnagogia* As you walk among us, in the flat sun of an overcast day, you throw no shadow. You carry it with you, drawing light from everything you pass near. The world pales. Ink drawn from pages, you paint absence onto day. Every face resists sight. When, unseen, the sun slips in its climb, you feel it and cry its hidden name. This answer is another you know. No need fulfills us, the parts unmade beneath our skin until just appearance remains and all that is at last is. We have no breath for a second guess. We have no will to stare. In the last moments, just before color loses its way, black leaves open on the trees, and it’s night. * [...]