Quiet, soft stardust
Encompassed, floating within the mind.
The brain is considered home
Neurons are sparking electric children
The skull is some kind of false barrier.

What is there to hold that which is made of
Infinite folds beginning and ending nowhere.
Colored some ever transforming shade

From the center of my forehead I pluck it
Out from the root of the mind
It’s a cloud, a ball of string,
a frozen cloud of smoke
melting and flying free in my palm,
It’s a collection of crumpled memories,
Torn to shredded pictures.

I look at it,
Fragile, helpless in my hand,
Just as I am helpless without it
Just as I am an empty shell without it.
And I put it back,
Press it like play dough
Back into the cave, deep in my brain,
Walnut small.

It’s good to know it’s there.


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