Owlwing

I am here. I am writing. The cold wet breeze touches my face bringing no memories, no thoughts, only an ever deepening mindbend. Days, like dead men with sandstone feet, walk in silence. They never speak to each other, always crushing beneath their feet words and ants of history. And yet I write sitting motionless in the intestine of time a fable of endless end.


I am writing from a place called ‘end of time’. I hope you can read what I write. I want you to
misunderstand me or rather never to understand me at all. By the time my message like the sweet stench of decay carried by the cold breeze reaches you, there shall be no other option left for you. You will have to misunderstand me. You are located somewhere in the beginning of the middle. The beginning that began is lost. It’s the price you pay for communicating before an aftertime.


Neverthere
The blueness 
of my night gathers around
your hands,
like owlwing melodies
disappearing into
an intimate abyss


Before you fade
leave me your clocks
and
just two words beside
my window:
"not yet! not yet!"