Be Still, Forever
By: David W. Pedersen
Into a brain, lacking crystallinity, I was told that death moved towards, never away,
and that time was a concept measured in disappointment.
An escape from all things.
Youth cannot be recaptured, regardless of clothing, hair, or vicariousness.
A slow fade replaces the seeping raw footage that is life.
There are no senses afterwards.
What can be touched without hands?
Silenced voices and a breath underwater.
A mute’s prayer,
in a vacant desert.