The day presents a journey, waiting to begin,
a font of wisdom in a strange new land,
each personage a soul to take apart,
although one never knew those traveler delights;
the things to love,
the mystery to probe--
that vague excitement beating,
beating in a viscous river, not the heart,
but deeper rumbling, forcing through
and past denial, echos of a distant consciousness
suspended in time's ether.
It is as art in powdered fragment,
crushed between the feet of desperation
as a history is wiped away; as in Iraq,
concentric blips of insight
clamor still, though now in whisper...
that dissecting souls is hazardous,
that would not breathe again,
that would not echo,
offers up its own creation--
poverty that we might not have known.
What was that beating?
More than history is gone.
Was it a sigh retreating
when the blackness won?