Thursday, April 13, 2017

What's It Called...

What's it called...
When you feel like you're being pulled from every direction at once?
Like Gravity placed its center at your core,
Then decided down wasn't actually down anymore?

My Gravity pushes things away.
If there were things, that is. It's easy to get lost in a Void.
I figure, if everything is nothing,
Why bother trying to orient yourself? Isn't it all just the same?

I can't say I didn't try.
But the endless expanse of gray purgatory was a Void, nevertheless.
And I was right in one sense.
Left in another. Everything is nothing. Down isn't actually down.

And whenever I'd speak,
My words would stick to the back of my throat like sickness.
The Gray was choking.
It was heavy, like the words were my core.

How is a universe born?
Is it conceived in a celestial womb? Or is it just gray
Until it isn't anymore?
Does it choke itself out of existence when it's done?

The thought smothers. Perpetuates.
Now there's nothing here except me and the weight of nothing.
The pressure bursting
Inside, the light is pulsing, but liquid blood still beats.

Am I dying?
Or is this Death? Surely this can't be Life if I'm wasting away.
Tidal forces with The Unknown;
It is my satellite; in The Gray, it looks like Promise.

But how can I be sure?
There is no Horizon, there is no moon by which to pray.
There are no stars to wish.
I am only. Surely this can't be Life.

I make my own Horizon.
I break The Gray into two halves: one gray and the other just.
And I become The Center.
I now lay someplace between the middle and the median.

Liquid blood like tides.
There is a fascination with The Unknown it ebbs toward.
It is shy; The Gray intimidates,
But is it simply foolish? Or is it Promise?

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