That forsaken figure of melting futures,
who reels in stillness, eyeless and waiting.
Whose very medium has dissolved into
the stinking stasis of his heels;
a stone of composure, built from heat.
But therein lies his heart:
within solidity, a fisted organ of fiery static,
slow and streaking, smoldering.
A scratching to which I have listened and wondered,
wandered to for far too long, so long
that I have since fallen on rusted elbows,
prostrate, tonguing a dying prayer
of sentimental hands, infinite blinks.
And there he remains and fades
in a courtyard of my daymares and nightdreams,
an outline burned across my peripherals.
That eternal wraith, tangled in stretched desire,
holding our premature galaxies against the ground.