by Michael Cormack12 Jul 2013
How often we pull ourselves apart;
these broken bodies of pianos,
music box machines
spinning parts and clockwork mechanics.
Some days there is so much static fuzzing through my skull,
buzzing between stations that i can't remember
what it might be that i am building
what it is that built this day.
(That which crafted us from crystal and dust is)
Fuzzing through thoughts, static
humming like buildings,
filled with workers and voices,
all murmuring like weekday mornings. I am mourning the midnight;
the quiet awe, the silent library of stars, and space
-the abandoned workshop of gods
i can wonder at its endless walls
in its whys,
in its questions, carved
into eloquent equations, stretching
billions of light years apart.
Where i can make patterns of it's architecture;
paint with the ghosts of those who painted this.
Where i can read the lines in their palms as art,
read the lines in these books as science.
Where we can pull ourselves apart ;
these well worn instruments,
tubes and strings.
we can look inside, beyond the workings
find something worth holding onto,
some resonant chord humming into,
moving through this,
its place in this empty symphony.