to make any sense

let shadow do all of the edge-work of framing.

let one's eyes be the braille effort at seeing.

let imagination internally bleed into one's presence.

take deep breathes as if to save oneself

from the impending, though not declared.

feature behemoth nouns conquering minuscule verbs.

find speech to be out-breath rage, 

disguised as topical worthy of informed resourcefulness.

have anguish as a source-place to be speaking from.

make touch be the scorn of tactile as rejection,

that separate comes to hunt efforts at failed closeness.

let sanity chase down every thought process forthcoming

and every glance back is a conclusion closer to insane.

be all of the wardrobe of consciousness one can muster,

knowing who one really is, 

is always dressed in projective drag.

know how frail needs a life of existence 

to provide for the wisdom before eventual demise.

how awareness is a fractured plain of personal perusal,

how next moments blatantly come 

as if time's primary existence 

is to prod for features to personally experience, 

but not all as of herd, passing momentously at once.

maybe sanity is just the in-breath pause

and all of the rest of breathing 

is an endlessness in passing.

so if one of us,

any one of us,

actually had a sit-down conversation with stillness,

would any of this make for any sense

like maybe a sixth or seventh or eight? . . .