In true, it was only dead leaves and and pages from dead books.
Its reality found only in the broken sound of its gait.
I met it in my sleep.
In every landscape, it stood inches away and facing me.
All of my mobility tampered with as it was always before me.
It was before me; before all of us.
It came from a before that wasn't recorded.
Its sophisticated decay is foreign to the now.
There are no things older,
except Jack Kelly.
No comments:
Post a Comment