Practice Room

Here,
I sit in flourescent light
to clutch the breasts of long-forgotten sound
while squares of cheap drab carpet
lift, and lift my hands from this fabricated ground.

What marks along the wall are these?

Please,
Do not tell me fingernails have wept along the corners of my cell,
first clawing at the carpet to recover dripping, seeping sanity,
that creeps between the cracks of this deserted neverness.

There is no time here.

Here,
Where starving soul and soulless come alike
to gently drink themselves to ethered sleep
while trembling air sings softly to a waking choir
of nameless mouths and once-dammed river dreams.

It seems my mind has lost its form
as chanting monks leap from my ears in unison.
I age indefinitely, my eyes and lips are broken.
My self, compressed, expressed to point,
explodes into an infinite, intimate, and intricate realm
of shattered fingertips.