The Radius

The timbre of a crying dog burning in the distance,
unpleasant like unknown
like the anticipation of pain
like the smell of burning flesh of fresh wood.

a plot of pendency
on the groundwork
of silence.

Something that ties me to distances of blanks,
goblet of an evening
filled with the red wine of burning timbers,
like a strand hanging from another space,
like a crimson lasso,
thrown
only for you
from another world.

Albeit it seems unknown
it goes all-out to recall its reminiscence,
call-out its knowingness, itself, its identity.
in a grand scheme of
some togetherness.

An inevitable portray,
neither pending on your pen
to reveal itself
nor the subject of that portray
but an intent, that like a seed
must with the blade made of cotton balls
cleft through rocks and stones.

A draft, penned with
"lime juice" between these lines, lanes...towns,
these books
things that only fire would reveal their meaning
their designs. (1)

Something that expands
ceaselessly and vigorously in space
though aware
that as long as it is spatial,
its journey wouldn’t end,
for as long as it expands,
it is incomplete,

But as long as it is able to lament
it is not fulfiled,
something in it
is not concluded.
But as long as it is able to lament
someone out there is going to hear
someone is going to weep.

So it goes on lamenting
to no end.
to
the end!
Though it only expands
to contract again,
examining endless keyholes
on the keyboards
to find
the door key
to THE music
it once
knew.

============

(1)
The political prisoners use to write their work between the lines of books and letters, with the tip of safety pins, by using lime juice instead of inc. The written part appeared blank in the eyes of the inspections, though when it was safe, out of the prison, by heating those blank spots, (usually between the lines) with lighter or iron, the invisible lines started to appear. That is how so many important books survived.