~-~-~-~-~

From the womb, the sun slammed into him.
When he began to think
he discovered he could not stop.
When he moved without, he moved within.
This motion was pain.  He looked for a day
that could cease, and when it came
he pulled all the other days
into its crater's pool.

He dumped out all his cups: where does anything go?
He burned all his blueprints: the structures rise
somewhere in the twilit outskirts
of the same aging universe.
The saviors failed him; he failed the saviors.
In rooms they talk, in open spaces
they speak and speak: language is mostly shield
and rarely pierces.

He took all his precious things and mixed them
with household trash.
Nobody dares clean in there, but they glimmer
even as they regurgitate darkness.
He banished himself from the only realm
where we continue to live; and the living
is freshly questionable.
And it seems he did not escape: he is lodged
deeply within--intermittently without--
uneasy as ever.

~-~-~-~-~