Crepulstice

  

In a way of seeing  

the temperature as a tide 

that ebbs and flows  

into and away-from  

things that once mattered so deeply. 

 

Where the alertness that wrought precision 

Now casts a discerning eye  

upon vacant spaces  

Hunting for faults, 

That, even when present, aren’t relevant.  

 

As if composing the masterpiece  

To be blankly stared at by thick minds and thin hearts— 

That wash out to the liminal  

In the way that everything becomes grey 

In the crepulstice 

 

And I don’t feel the fear, or the ire, or the adrenaline   

only the drawl of my own sand  

abrading away the luster of myself  

So that I might be seen differently—  

Worthy of your landscape.