unmetered, ominous soliloquy,
rushing past its voice
east to the Atlantic, hours away,
absorbed within that flooded chest
and disembodied, lost, sustaining
one insistent spirit echo that will not be stilled.
This is post-midnight's roundelay
and sense must yield, must resonate,
must seize upon the senseless,
play its antiphon upon a restless harp,
knowing there is no relief.
It is a bitter parody of resurrection
in its clay-filled sorrow
like an aimless ghost amid the tombs,
clinging to the earth.
Where science shrugs and walks away,
the mystery of knowing stays behind--
by this obsessive importuning,
forever in its thrall.