Falling to a state of chalk
running existence over
anything that might
create beyond
unreal reality,
this echoing chamber
in which washing one’s hands
of all thoughts, and this chalk
-like existence,
this echoing chamber,
is longed for.
Whyyyy
like the chalk on my hands
do they speak in the echoes and feelings,
uncomfortable static,
like grinding one’s teeth
in a dream.
But existence is real
for some,
so they say,
but how do they reach that reality?
How do they reach what is real
to get rid
of the chalk
and dim echoes.
trailingsomething 