Nothing shifts

in the corners of shut eyes nothing moves.

Each view a panorama of black and white charade.

Yet every movement stolen by unseen hands.

My body, half in a dream

a lake of my consciousness.

Nothing shifts

in the recesses of  weary ears nothing tinkles.

Only the rhythmic tick-tock of broken watches

and tung-tung of rusty chimes atop the window.

Nothing shifts

on dry palms no water drips.

Parched skin unquenched – clenched

fists rioting with complete silence.

Nothing speaks

inside sewed lips nothing mutters…

nothing escapes.

I am a mannequin of my own making.

I am a blank record of unfulfilled wantings.

I neither despise nor enjoy. I only am.

In the stillness I feel nothing.

In this stillness I am EVERYTHING.



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