One Word

One distant day,

every future with every past

will be

intrinsically and evidentially linked.

From then and beyond, going forward

all words will be the same root word,

again and again.

I cannot hear any other word.

All words were the same process

inside me, (thinking).

All words were the same results,

(recognition).

All words were the same ritual,

(meaning).

All words were the same starving fire

above emotion's soul.

All words were slippery then

and now slipping into one,

(experience's demise).

All words were then of the same voice,

(monotone and fading).

All words were then

something referenced,

(objectification).

All words were recycled stuff,

(waves of reiteration).

Really, it came to be,

all words were the same word.

So what of utterance was one word?

What species had but uttered

and all understood?

So one word became all I could hear.

It was as if all my sight

had been taken away,

my dominant sense,

without pictures,

without presence,

without frame.

All in just the one word.

A phantom of a word

because I expected to hear.

An empty word

that reflected more then hearing.

What of the busyness of mind,

the security of representation,

the calming effect of identification?

All were frames reflected from a light

I could no longer see or see with.

I became an emotional creature

stripped of its cover,

no sense of direction,

motionless in the blind.

All I had was the sound

from inside that word.

I have been

sensorially compromised,

out of body and floating free.

One word, keeps reoccurring.

One word, maybe repeating, maybe,

maybe admittance of space between,

maybe my lack of attention span.

Oh, and then one word again.

Is this something coming full turn?

Is this the sound of hearing,

hearing's hearing-ness

as one word?

What use of memory

is thrown my way?

Hard to awake into a trust unearned,

a function I know nothing of,

an immediacy of absentmindedness

yet deeply so familiar.

One indistinguishable word

maybe repeated but not repeatable,

at least not by speech.

For this,

this one word, is all I have.

That maybe I am just the hearing

of this one word.

That this one word, is timeless,

is the summation

of all words that ever were,

whittled down, over time,

worn out and worthless.

This one word, as essence of word,

as ritual, as process,

as maternal, as murmur.

All words, ever said,

all at once

but for now,

nothing to grasp with or for.

I would take any movement

as response.

I would take any impression

upon me.

I would yield to any shift

as familiar.

I would embrace any ground / figure

as securing.

But what of now?

Only one!

Who is that in us,

who calls it out?

Word,

Yes,

only one.

Who is it in us

who hears it as such?

Yes, one word moving through us

without the wardrobe of time.