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.
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.
on dry palms no water drips.
Parched skin unquenched – clenched
fists rioting with complete silence.
inside sewed lips nothing mutters…
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.