Sometimes I go to a place without language,
one where communication is in the woven light
of nebulas and neurons
Sometimes I tear away my perceptions
shredding them like pages
left to saturate in murky depths
Soft tears, slight upon the perception
hint at something misplaced
in the hardened edges of highways
.
I am lost to comfort,
recognizing that in the lesser struggle of it
one finds the least of survival,
life is defined in the bony edges,
the emaciation feeding the spirit
with appreciation for the senses
.
Someday, when there are children again
I will tell stories of everyone