Poem

Minologos

 

Nothing takes place. Nothing takes no place. Becoming remains. Becoming remains and becomes, until becoming fills nothing to the edge of falling and it no longer moves. No longer stands. It only flutters, twitches, crackles. Monadic, mumbling monologues. Word-soaked, the bodies of millenniums drip through the walls, leaving only the mumbling bricks. He picks one up for himself. The other end is being held.