Thumbprints and Wool

There are worlds beyond the tips of my fingers—

Ones that I can barely brush.

Built of thumbprints and slant faces and closed mouths,

Withholding what is never be spoken of.

There is infinity and it lies beneath my skin.

Infinity, eloquently inscribed to boil my blood.

A single pond, red with exhaustion,

Red from sweat and death and burns from the sun.

There are lives and like wool, they appear to be woven.

Within a world as complex as ours,

But there are lives and they continue—

Somewhere far.

Somewhere far.

Somewhere far.