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Focus Five: Emotional Translation

Seen here is an excerpt from Investigation in Relation to a Dove, a five focus exploration on the meaning behind a quote from GennaRose Nethercott’s A Lumberjacks Dove. 

Man has the heartbeat trapped within a cage of bone. 

It claims life as its own and holds it in captivity.  

Those who treasure breath as gold have waited.  

They wait for the sun to set and for it to rise again.  

They see warm breath turn white in the world created by their kin who have gone from sensation.  

The whole is made up of numerical value.  

Those who chase birds of prey forget the order of keys on a computer and are no longer counted in the census.  

This is the way of dissipation.  

The ones who lost their way from synchronization within the species became life.  

They followed the tracks left by the bobcat, hunting rabbits in the snow.  

The colonies left behind became one with the clicking satisfaction of productivity.  

This divergence became the dichotomy of law. 

Despite the insistence from steel and rain alike, there are those who exist in in breach of division.  

The ones who are held in observation became letters of limbo.  


The world was formed in time measured only by generations the color of honey or tar.  

Even as movement never ceases, all must settle and become dust in the moments to come.  

Once, there was a forward to find.  

The light that guides plants to the sky is no different than the escape that leads shells to commute.  

Within the monotony, a concept created by those who lost the joy in each rotation, the forward transitioned to above.  

From this station, in the between, they must look to the fibers that bind all.  

Future now resides in the atmosphere, due to popular demand.  


Each of the shells has taken to the word.  

The sanctity of matter rests in possession.  

To take is to exit as a point rather than a breeze.  

The breeze cannot be held, one day they will know it is still enough.  

To move, even if in circles, is also enough.  

This truth is found in the path lost long ago, forged by the sun-watchers and covered by the passage of rotations.  

Though the aging melts in a plane, those that are observed have gone.  

The circular, planetary travel had found itself parked.  

The humans lived.  

Those who lost their way found peace when dust showed them their meaning.  

The only ones left are the letters who never chose a direction. 

There is no sadness at the stopping of motion.  

The cold that is left cannot be felt.  

An end is not an act of finality, it just is. 

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