Splits II

Within us lies the perpetual dichotomy

Each telling each sides tale

Which is our chosen truth telling story?

Lightness bright or dim dusk stale

 

Breezes whisper through our ears, as the sun warms bone

Frigid Haunts blue our undereyes, creating hearts of stone

Warm Close

Talk about the layers of air;

How the sun shines through the dust;

Shed upon the open bulkhead;

Heat greets the wooden planks;

Sends it up your spine;

Each particle has its place:

Creating a field

Layers

and

Layers.

All are affected by the shine:

But cold treats the stone carved plans as their servants;

It runs through your skull;

Over

and

Over.

You have lost your place;

You have lost your spine;

You have lost the shine.

The bulkhead is now closed.

No dust is visible.

You are once again blind to each  position.