The friction, the chafing resistance
An unbothered mass of matter in motion,
Cold with indifference, echoing numbness
The collective smoking embers of
This squatter strain of clamorous vertebrates,
Perched between silent fire and muted ice
For a moment of panicked breaths,
Demanding meanings for the wax and wane of every tide.
The man blind from birth
Decoding Braille bump prophecies
From papillomas and plantar warts
Because he has been cradled since the womb
With whispers that a life without vision is not worth living.
There is nothing absurd about this world, or any other.
There is nothing absurd about you, or any Other.
But why strain your eyes to connect the stars into stories
And not fill your inkwells with the blackness of space between?
Your voice is growing hoarse and fading—
Come, sit with me by these coals and tell me a story
From within you, while it can still be told.