Distance

Distance


There is nothing left to claim nor declare;
We have said it all through-n’ again.
Each passing hour, day: a signifier of distance.
Yet I speak, praying e’er for connection,
A reignition of the warmth that reigned,
And a call against rising resentment.
I speak, and yet there are no ears left
To hear. There is nothing but distance.

There is nothing left to touch nor gain;
Can you, too, not sense this disintegration?
Soon they will become years: a pinch of salt
Cast into dispersal. What has been achieved—
What were these hours spent for—but tempering
Your spirit, to steel it from catastrophe?
I reach out, and yet there is no flesh left
To feel. There is nothing but distance.

I am weary of this night;
Yet I shall keep such strain to myself,
And treat upon the circumstance of the soul.

Encased in a boundless tomb, solitude
Once dearly wish’d now becomes a prison
To contain the greatest physical pain:
The endless crying void of distance.


Published by

A. J. Sahnow

Author of The Groop, available on Amazon in print and Kindle. Also poet, writer of short stories, musical recording artist, Dungeon Master, erstwhile filmmaker. Graduate of Film Studies, BA Hons First Class. Twitter: https://twitter.com/SahnowScribbles | Music: https://nounverbnoun.bandcamp.com/ | Short films: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCFgGw0vS7jWVWnEoGtHJxKw

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