Coarse Weave

Silent, inert, neither breeze nor gale

can mar the mirrored gloss that hides

the Deep-below;

I have no wants or needs beyond the polite.

I feel nothing at all, my sun-lit day is night,

my reality only hinted at by the mental hum

of my hidden self.

I am taken by the slow smother of coarse weave.

There is no evil. No malice hunts me;

it is a tumble from an above I can no longer

reach, a simple fall but the drop is sheer and

into clay I crash, there to thrash a few pointless

moments long, a flail sure to fail in this Trickster's trap;

I can only wait for a fleeting unknown

to be held by sight long enough;

it will be an ordinary thing, that will hook me

with a glint of gold seldom seen, it will open the door on a million thoughts and dreams, constant, turbid, swirling, images, words, and themes;

yet there is but a blade of grass between relief and thief, this creature-creation will offer no reprieve, no middle ground and I throw ever more time to be devoured,

a gentle madness, but a madness all the same.