Fold


I await revelation but time ticks over,
displacing objects without the desperation
of drama. And the revelation does not come.
Inexorably, indiscernibly, my mind
folds in on itself, my last thought
urging my body to follow suit, pack up, furl,
reveal itself only to the strongest will,
the keenest eye.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

World's End

Sick

Two Photographs of the Same Poet, Years Apart