Warm Close

by fragmentedspeech

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.

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