The Close Faraway

We are essentially the abuses of our small bits of power

Granted enough to stray toward the edge

We are the ways in which we color outside dotted lines

And the leaking of thoughts from our faucet-like heads

We are not ourselves in cages

Boxed up and bowed up and set aside somewhere

We are not the caution tape around some petty theft

Nor the secrets whispered to the dark when none are near to care

But rather we are cracks of light

That disturb the cobwebbed room

The door that's cracked, the candle wax

We drip, we drool, we swoon

Interconnected at the edges only and just that

There is but slight attention to existence in our space

We are not full enough to be a shadow in the corner of an eye

But an after-image nonetheless when long empty, this place

Dream not of glory, then my brothers

Sisters do not vainly wait

For with all your heavy breathing

Not one single breath can take