From the last breath come ripples.
A sad death by one’s own desperate choice,
does nothing to silence the voice
still reverberating in waves
through the collective consciousness.
Its infinite octaves
are still peeling sound from space,
re-entering on a spinning plate
to be absorbed through every fibre.
It contains your own painful journey
and the light from its galaxy can guide
the thoughts that do not run aground
but drift through your mind
like ghost ships of sound.
It softened the night,
only a footnote for its continuation
that could not be measured.
All the change contained in one voice,
The obscure mist-like breath
that covers the moon,
the bells ringing in the day.
With a scale that makes oceans out of rain,
you drew light over silken surfaces,
searching for something in vain
through depths we could never quite fathom.
A voice no longer attached,
like a shattered glass that knows no ceiling
but stealing shards from the sky,
a divine ballroom
collapsed in liquid edges,
suggesting it is more fluid than material.
It returns to the elemental,
the crackling of fire
the far off laughter in a trickster wind
disappearing around a bend.
There was a submission,
after grappling so long with misery,
You slipped to the deep end.
Strung out like clouds along the ridge line,
it was the peaks that pierce you.
The slight crack in a soaring falsetto,
an uninterrupted echo
in the forest, accomplice to what’s hidden in dense brush.
Like the sudden illumination of a spider’s web,
delicate as a vision,
it’s the sudden realization
that we were attached to something fleeting.
How quickly it shifts,
like the switch of the rails.
Metal on metal
fingers across chalk
scraping at the spine
with tingling waves until silenced,
until resigned to the rafters of empty halls.
Now stripped of all pretense,
this tree of its leaves,
with notes falling brilliantly
like flickers of flame
on the surfaces of streams.
It remains vagrant in the subconscious,
like the purpose of dreams,
until at last you align
and drop needles
into the waiting grooves of dark circles
spinning, illuminating
a craft that was always at the point of collapse.
In Memory of Chris Cornell
yakskinpocketnotes 