Nirvana Recompense

Between the ones and zeros,
lingering within a yellowing sort of cellophane haze,
a whole number is born, expanding horizons,
colliding, smashing into particles of thought,
tells a story:

between here and there exists a place,
a certain locale – a state of mind,
a kind of blind metaphor for peace,
an abstraction of space, or merely the misstep
of an old man’s clumsy gait

in between right and wrong i found myself
fumbling in a fugue, a fog that had not lifted,
it spread its arms about me, though never
quite touched me, then into nothingness it became
saw-dusted – a memory

and i in limbo (some time was spent)
i yearned for the feeling of not being kissed,
i, not seen yet somehow sensed,
i, not alone but always missed,

in a crowd . . .

i am the dream you had on the eve of your death
(the one that woke you, compelled you to write these words in haste)
of a smallish blonde boy who spoke in tongues
whose flesh begat an emptiness,
a wet, dripping kind of hollow mess,
reflected in a pool of his own benevolence,

did you come here to find this – this nirvana, this recompense?

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