Exit

I know you are sad about my leaving.
I am here now, and will be tomorrow.

Have no fear of what will become of my vision;
That fraudulent sense, that unsigned murmur.
For soon, I will see without sight.

Vision can be as bitter as winter.
It can lead you into a snowstorm in the wrong direction,
Coldness submitting you to turn back.

Yet, without sight, vision becomes as innocent as love.

Have no fear of what will become of my hearing;
That beguiling function, that impalpable pulse.
For soon, the flash of sound drains away.

Sound can be as sour as spring green apples,
Guiding you into a well of thunder,
Deceiving the receiver.

Yet, without sound, hearing becomes as pure as the wool of a lamb.

Have no fear of what will become of my touch;
That cream of sensuality, that corpus of caress.
For soon, I will feel without touch.

Touch can be as sharp as stinging nettles,
Stabbing the most solid of souls,
Wounding in hurtful ways.

Yet, without touch, feeling is transparent and clean.

How did we come to this place,
This precipice of disembodiment?
We wish it were different,
But, the vital forms must return to the Athenaeum.

I know you are sad about my leaving.
I am here now, and will be tomorrow.