Is it the trick of the Mind,
To feel so alive in departure?
To have dropped all luggage,
Sealed the door on this fractured room.
To have had blood spilt
By the very knife that stirred it;
To stand sole once more
With this exposed gloom?
The longing is expected,
And opened palms pitied
Like the surface had stood as the face of a cliff.
Yet who is cleansed in this premature collapse?
Or who is drowned when omitted at last?
And who here, with cobwebs that engulfed the flame,
And choking spray of deadened ash,
Can close eyes and laugh at the crack in the frame:
Am I awake?
Or to wake and thrash?