cobbled like
dinner when you don’t care
so much for
the finer things as
getting something
in your reluctant stomach
aside
bile and a metallic ringing.
staring
straight through and up
to your chest
not for the soft spaces
but rather the cold and hardened space within
something like a knot
through which once passed your
semblance of what was
which is now
nothing but a spark in the potential of what could be once more.
fear not
or do;
peer out at the ominous presence
knowing
It is peering too
frightened
or not, perhaps.
break ties
with what was;
it isn’t any longer.
this
is all there is,
until it is not.
Objects, and the Distance Between Them 