It’s quite quiet to quit

The day I’ll get to read my mind it’ll be like having read all the books written in human history.

It’s a rope that swings in the air, it’s high, you can’t see if it’s strong enough to keep you up.

It’s the horizon line you could write on at sunset. But it’s burning and it’s untouchable.

It’s a dotted path that a bird ate away. No chance you can find how to get back nor forth.

It’s a blank page, really, it’s blank. And it’s black.
Ink has fallen on words and covered them all like a blanket.

 

 

Lights are off. Senses are all out of work.
Silence holds breath, so do I.
Have you ever listened to a phone when the line is gone?

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