Half Past Endless

Nothing can save you once you've fallen half past endless.

You could’ve grown up to pursue all of you,

every little, smiling channel that branches off from you.

The sea, when there you stood, looked so cold

but you knew all your dreaming would be enough

to lift the world and, like a corkscrew,

crack it down the middle with jagged edges

—make it all so much simpler

with its split dimensions, black and white—

and flaming wine

—say, is each swallow much kinder than bitter?

 

The selfish gods that bind you blind you

like warping organs dying to the very gulp.

You took the acrid pill with no room for the chase:

along that downward hall, a stone seeps down

and pins you like a spinning magnet on the board.

Yes, the sea was cold, but you could have sent it boiling

with every untouched piece of you.

All opposites are separated by hairline fissures:

deep to the grooves, but short across.

You took the black instead of white and fell past endless.

 

Immortal time, it betrays you

when you see it stretch past seeing.

Remember the channels that ran dry

because they flowed on that infinite space?

Release yourself on that track and face the dust;

you’re clawing at the ancient and the numb.

Blanket your ears, shade your eyes,

for no sacrifice of torture nor sacrifice of blood

can ever kiss the tears or heal the screams—

not once you’ve fallen half past endless.

Author's Note

I leave it for you to analyze, but I meant for this to be about how dreams, when left untouched and late replied to simply become... nothing.