Men in hats, running; the dream in anticipation <br />of the nightmare. A second sun swallowing yesterday’s <br /> <br />taciturn whimsies. No one looking, legs a blur on the treadmill <br />of prescience, without heroes or helmets big enough <br /> <br />to contain insecurity’s eruption. No standing up. No standing <br />down. Only a teeth chattering recollection of tidal pool <br /> <br />simplicity, and corporeality’s urge to return. The melt runs <br />far and deep, eating time, eating salvation, vomiting up itself <br /> <br />within itself, covering itself with thoughts of exceptions, and <br />redemptions, and little plans no larger than this. Transcendence <br /> <br />was never the motivation, always the excuse for patience. Men <br />die again. Others take their places while sunset beckons, unheeded.<br /><br />metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/slow-burn-2/
