A reservoir

Dust settled.

Without sound, it weighed.

Heavy. Air became less.

Absorbing flesh, they formed spears.

Cartilage shoved. Dislocated salts, mucus and wet

blood that doesn’t bleed.

Spears splintered.  

Then, a false rock,

with soft and wet spots—eventually too, dried.

An eon, a second: again, essence blurred.

Death: not possible.

A wave of dust, malleable now.

A Spring. A reservoir.

Soft pebbles flung, skipped and made harmless.

Then dried, the water evaporated.

The soft pebbles now of moss.

A turtle’s shell partly emptied.

An unclean syringe.  

Wet ruffled feathers.

Purple made pale.   

The infinite: what would have been?

An upside down boat—tears too.

Hollow screams.