Gone?

I am searching for these lines,
Former filmy
hints, vestiges of cadence

I laid them out with pins
charred sacrifices
spilling doubt over
fear’s stony altar
while their names
press like smoke on the edges
of my frenetic heartbeat

I can no longer hear them
pressing, stepping
except in desperate
snippets

what I held
I no longer keep
as little worshipped
treasures

Instead, they have lodged
themselves in this
partial abyss,
little cold stones

squandered
and broken with their
crimped blue itinerant wings

This filmy steel thread
I have unwound, a celestial weaving
unruffled on this loom of vibration
ceaselessly insistent of
what I no longer am able to touch

Yet, I am frail,
and I can hear the insidious
rapture of death

My roots have dislodged.
They have split like shocks
and muttering atoms of
doubt.

I can no longer
understand their mutters
or their painful movement

I do not know who to ask
what they sing
or chant
seeped into the shadow
and tendril of rising memories.

They are a cruel half voice
of metal and sky

and still I crawl back
begging, though they no longer
recognize me

so many voices
skulking away without even
a hasty intrusion
I would welcome like
dreams.

This piece was composed by an author wishing to remain anonymous. In a tragic stroke reminiscent of Ms. Dickinson, they disposed of most of their works; however this one has survived the purge. It is my hope that this poet soon realizes the pulchritude of their work and remembers that they picked up the pen for a reason.

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