Quiet

The world in blue, a study in lines,

Byzantium forged, fearless, fallowed;

In the space of a single moment, forgotten,

Rotting like the hand that gave it life.

If you could only hear the silence

You would see,

If you could only close your eyes

You might have been a part of it.

This dream was not the product of sleep,

Not the half-remembered

Excrement of bullshit REMs.

Awake, aware of all the motions,

A mass of conscious flesh and blood,

Serving only as the path on which

The vision stakes its claim.

Roughly splayed in sweeping strokes,

The page becomes electric,

From dust to dust an eager age

Peaks out around the curtain,

Ready to expand and fill the world;

The moment passes unaware,

And in the quiet, dies.