081514: time, closed doors, purple leaves

(words from Katrin Krass)

Your voice is there but your eyes are not. Invisible fingers flick through a hardcover volume of a favourite. Back, then forward. Other hand holds the spine.

We have reversed into a crick of time, where there were words, your natter, framed by portals built by engineers. The conversation is casual, fickle, magnified, unaware of what we now know.
Witness the regulated crank of production, the ticking minutiae of industry through the coded, folded, collapsed pockets. Step back so far for a bigger picture that we forget we’ve fallen off edges before. But this is how we remember you, scrutinise and squint, at the silhouette on the horizon. You are bent and happy, focussing on insects at your feet.
The march of the silver machinations absorbs you and your attention away from the shadowy pendulum slowly swooping, soon to arrive at your skull.
We, gifted with continuation, with illusion of longevity and hindsight, start to theorise. We churn out predictions, can and label them. Place them on a shelf for display.
1. “Gravity will win, it will fall, and you will end.”
2. “I could save.”

I am whispering, asking the object to stop in it’s path, enquiring politely. Tapping it on its shoulder and kindly requesting it go against its own nature, coupled with basic physical law.
This is my flimsy-willed design, and the best I can proffer to you, my friend.

The actors and the heroes, the bellowers and the belchers, rush into the milieu, legs stomping through the topsoil and voices punching through the atmosphere. I watch, dubious but hopeful, as they each get knocked down by the equal force they omit.
The blue blood and spluttering explosions are vivid, touchable, hotted up for a grab.

Your worker ants keep bustling over the ground, as your attention diverts toward the smell of burning hair, and cyclonic commotion. Your neck cranes, returning our squints.
As surfaces connect.
As your arms open wide to embrace the shadows. In recoil.
As the sound of bone crunching on metal resonates over the plane, to the spectators, outside the frame, above the speckled shards of light, through vision, to reach out of memory and cognisance, and hold our faces in a sweet caress directly preceding a sharp stab.

You are reduced to a sound, a spectre crunched with that impact, your face hidden and blurred. We seek you but have not found you since. We compound our tragedies into that one moment, we answer questions with more questions, that lead us in a crawl towards a crack in the corner.
Your arms were open wide.
Your gaze orange and comforting.
Your hands are warm and papery smooth.
You look over, eke back to all of us, the forms of the words twisting through their distance. Your chords are strangling. I hear music out from your throat.

Your voice is there, but your eyes are not. They have rotted into into into

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