my moved chair

the wind-born chatterings slipped through,
sought the undisturbed flesh, and purged themselves.
gluttons all, and envious too, of the clean sanity,
fresh white linen swaying upon soft breezes
gently between ears.

mud spatter, blood, awful, shred.
discourse as a red molten pane of glass.
linen darkens along a red forethought,
smoke and smell, waft and swell, hair singes
upon mucous membranes.

tiny strings woven once into soft linen,
upon which we all sway
we all wrap ourselves within, comfortably.
but a linen brane burns quickly
as does everything too.

and it all comes through soft portals,
it all came and made itself a home.
between the ears, the universe lies,
and the wages of sin are death,
so die wild savage, or too tame earth,
but take me too.

leave not a singed hair or drop of skin.
alone upon a singing string will never,
will never, quite be as it should.
stale need of lonely souls now.
ha. never, I once said.

...quiet. still.
look back to real things.
and you? and you? and my chair?
it has been moved a bit.
who was here? I know my things,
I know you lie.