Show me the hands that scratched the earth as their earthly wardens dragged the body back to its mother. In my time I saw the hands of my friends dipped in glass, starved from paper holdings, crowded in tired fume cells. Where are the times we had together?

I am a liminal intent, bent on becoming a subliminal criminal, poised on the aftershocks of despair, rocketing outward while my brother climbs the stairs. Do we have the power?

It is time, my friends, to cease from circulating in the masses, making passes as fast as molasses, growing green grasses while blasting the fastest gymnastic. Spastic as amplified fire rituals.

In this day in age I saw you as you reached for my heart, beating in the warm sun as you climbed my body with your hands. If only you knew the power those fingertips had as they wept bright curtains of sparkling danger.

Tired as I was you touched my soul. You are the 37 grains of salt in the wound my parents gave me. The cool and quiet remains of your voice still drift to the shore of my memory like torn curtains.

But you are still here and I am still here. Together, where are we?

Is it a collapsed dream that I still hold together? Is it a vow waiting to be spoken?

Only at the right time will I pull it out of my hat, and in a blinding flash of smoke, convert it into the thing that brings you closer.

And yet, I ask myself, what is it?

In all symmetrical creations, logic defies you like a prayer wheel.

But prayers keep praying, over and over again, round and round they go, where they stop...

I took the time to cancel my recreation.

And found you there. Again.

Will you ever go?

Don't go, I need you here.

But go.

Wait, come back.

Why are you doing this to me?

We live and die in the complications God gave us.

But I still love you.