Static/ Pulsing

In the future
I will be someone who looks in the mirror
And sees my refraction-image without wondering
What that hinting apparition of flesh
Actually means,
But believing in something, something earnestly.

Or else in the future
I will have arranged and ordered
All the lifeless things around,
All the smeared steel surfaces and deep mahoganies,
So that I hear my soul’s pulse
As skeptically as the potential words
These things may speak to me.

I pass the fleeting sights of haunting eyes,
The moments constantly forking towards
One or the other of these still paradigms.

There are two ways now to walk, unsteady, with time:

There is the way where thoughts slip away into static,
Slither down my neck, convex along my back,
And then disappear
Into the stealth of the concrete’s cracks.

Or else there is the quick, ferile scamper,
A walk that jumps nervously
With the same caged twitch
Of a Soul-Creature’s fast-heart,
That lonely, erratic beat.