By J.A Weymouth
Day is like opening,
seeping a while not there
deep, thorough and momentless
it carries – stops/taken – the word is ever.
An unavoidable grasp sends
a wave to a shiver
as the memory curls
the motion blurs
a stain fixes itself
onto a translucent permanence.
It doesn’t care of the action.
& all of memory is divided and focused.
Parallel thoughts hinder it
The fist clenches as the eyes begin to stare.
That unknown triviality – frail like
but weighs against the mind and it
Calming into a comatose state of denying