Before time there was
only my shell and
pulsing
inside
the fleshy vacuole inside where,
pulsing,
I waited to see what time would
hold for my fluid existence
suspended in what I now know to be
the atrium of blindness where
pulsing
I could see blindly only
what sights were created for me especially,
the cosmic particles floating quietly
overhead in the gleaming red
pulsing,
the dazzling
lights which marked time,
but not the passing of thousands of years
in the lit sky
pulsing,
in the globular kind of
entrapment, meant only as a harbour
before the unsettling waves of the outside
in this atrium was my shell, my lungs shell
pulsing,
in this atrium was the continual gloom
and sticky comfort of being held close,
closely held by the strings of an internal universe,
held here for an unknown duration, blindly,
so that I could know the
pulsing
raw reds that were,
before the greens and pinks of my Mother.
saara 