The Glorious Dumb

the pulse, and the red life. the muted song we create, and we are. constant murmurs, beautiful and murderous, pressing us into a shadow and through, to the otherworld. in this place, in the dark and quiet and complex, we become every thing, every thought. below the tension at the surface of us, colors exist, but can’t be seen, exist in the telling, in the bleeding. we are the science of what science lacks, the metaphysical, the untouched. we are the tellers of the untold, mind to hand, what lips cannot convey, we are every thing, every thought, the glorious dumb, the infinite depth.