at a loss
Time without word coming, I'm waiting through a few more moments of void; dropping into the ashtray are stories aborted, willed distractions. This kind of pain must negate language, or we'd have common words for it by now, like anxiety, only more specific.
Where the spine joins the head, tightness, throbbing tension, unrelieved, caged, caged, implosive words unsaid, we are losing the sense of it, we are losing -- alone, finding myself alone, I, finding myself alone, I, sat for a chat? No, I, bereaved expatriate talk is of how we were, people define our definitions, take us away. Finding myself alone, I observe, an inability to concentrate, effect, dispose, communicate, connect with particles of ideas. Nothingness makes sense. I can tell you about this pain he feels, and I cannot touch it, this throbbing tightness where the spine joins the head, these too many thoughts filling the brain, seeping out, spoiling, poisoning down the neck, turning muscle into a meaningless, ineffectual nothingness I fear I am speaking now to those who wondered what I meant by my not saying. Newly conversant with death and loss, I discover a whole new litany of unresolved rage, amen.
copyright 2012, Philip D. Luing
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