oddly detached, I am still.
The way a large vacant room
might hold its breath in silence
during a long season
when the door is locked
and sheets cover the furniture.
Dissolution is on my lips,
or the expanse after dissolution
the expanse when the wind is blowing hard
and all the particulate has scattered
and there is no longer weather to speak of
during this polar night. No stars reveal themselves.
The void overshadows but sleep does not come.
-- a poem by Mar (Mistryel) Walker