yet the mind keeps
spinning around itself,
Reaching for the ghost limbs
of the dream.
All that's left is a feeling,
like a half-forgotten song's
remembered charm.
It's an ancient book of fiction,
of knowledge and its makers
on a cross to be the victors
over the ennui of disbelief.
The key no longer turns.
The station now is static.
It's dawn before the noise begins,
pure, white.
