There is no way out of the labyrinth, meandering trap.
Language is a circle that goes nowhere, though it entertains the mind;
Scripture calls it God.
The world is not the thing: Table, chair, word, person.
Time only happens in thought, what is seen is not seen,
Space and content.
All of history is a sham, this human construct of box:
Pull the zip tab, see it rip and go up in flame, a puff of smoke.
What’s left is nameless.
Coffee is perking, the furnace kicks on, sunlight creeps through the blinds
Daylight turns to night, breath rises, falls, a pulse beats in the heart,
Cardinal red against a cursive scroll of tree branch,
A bird thinks it sees another, but there is only ever one bird,
A blistered empty sky.
Kelly Thompson’s work has been published in The Rattling Wall, Entropy, Oh Comely, Dove Tales, The Rumpus, Proximity, The Writing Disorder, Witchcraft, Manifest Station, 49 Writers, and other literary journals. Her essay “Hand Me Down Stories” was recently nominated for a Pushcart by Proximity. She is also curator for “Voices of Addiction” at The Rumpus. She is a psychotherapist and has a small private practice. She also works on assignment with soldiers recently returned from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and their families. Kelly lives in Denver, Colorado in the sunshine of the spirit. You can follow her on Twitter @stareenite