Rachel Turney, Hand 1
4AM in Infrared
S. C. Flynn
The thermal caress of daylight has left you
eager for the night and its lonely voyage.
In this dark there are no kings, no leaders,
and all the unreliable narrators–
the black flower of civilisation
and its wilting pretence of justice–
are just bat skeletons in a cupboard.
Speech is a torn net through which thought escapes,
but the silent mind is a starless sky
where a meteor glides and then is gone;
the universe frozen to a solid ball
of crystal held tightly for a moment
while emptiness’s ghost turns and re-turns
the fears and powdered ashes of generations.
S. C. Flynn
The thermal caress of daylight has left you
eager for the night and its lonely voyage.
In this dark there are no kings, no leaders,
and all the unreliable narrators–
the black flower of civilisation
and its wilting pretence of justice–
are just bat skeletons in a cupboard.
Speech is a torn net through which thought escapes,
but the silent mind is a starless sky
where a meteor glides and then is gone;
the universe frozen to a solid ball
of crystal held tightly for a moment
while emptiness’s ghost turns and re-turns
the fears and powdered ashes of generations.