numbering the eye shutters of light traps and blinds black

a human is time’s way of moving

the cross on a back and the bend of steps inward

the knots pulled tighter and the seams torn in breaking hurt a little harder  

to be breathing, awake or alive


the mystified still stand at the edge, when the jump comes, even those who come back are not sure what catches the fall


the dreams for renown come to a halt, something whispers stronger as the seeds from a past sprout even in the days without light

a family’s crest

or the return of worn down luggage


as the form softens, it grows stronger and the mind may ease in its circle

as the animals once were

given to it and with the mind, overcame

as beast in nature, of magnitude and ability

with redirection for the salt of life’s wounds


cracks in the china

lines in our creases


a logic unforeseen that silences  

or stops what may walk too far

meeting the maker’s middle  

in its furrow of brow

in the rock paste of clay


it is not just the child that dreams alone, tall on a stool standing over an empty room

the jest displayed to a room of empty seats

what is empty does not mean it is not filled

rather a self’s projection

in canvas painted only outward where what was out would stay so and would not find the in


a human’s brilliance, to be bold and great

to veneer upon the greatness of acclaim for its own desire latent,  

that to walk a path of  

or drawn, the panorama of perceiving

stepped down abysmal bound



where worn down tech finds the future and frees it. 


happy new year, find the stretches in the cracks & let not our extremities grow into the device that sits upon them  

copyright 2019 ⓒ / forrest gallagher