Inward a spire was built sharply,
Silver like glass and vertigo fear and
Smoke, cold smoke, twisting like liquid.
A whisper was all that was needed,
Barely a thread of the shadow of the spirit
Or soul of the wind, and I heeded.
I can't see the surface below, but I fear it.
It is chasing me, and I stand still.
Lying on empty, resting but not,
What is this lack of earth I feel?
Oblivion. It is my mind, it is thought.
Holding together the fragile fiber
Of pretend universes falling
Into the simulacrum of Tiber.
Half-made, half-extreme, fully my beloved children:
Dying in life because never living
Lost before found or born.
It is unknown. And more familiar to me
Than the skin that has enfolded me
In its warm embrace, not roomy
And not snug until after meals;
But no matter, this.
It is It, is all. The soul has undrawn pages
At the back of its atlas.
It is enough to feel the wind.