theres a novel on the other side

somewhere inside of the container, there's substance.
there's cause, and matter. the filmy kind,
that grits like wet sand in between the fingers.
As with most, the inside isn't all that air tight.
Wilting occurs, moisture sucks dry,
inners sucking out to stay alive.
Only it isn't. it's all dead in there, only
kind of living because of its past.
Immediate past, the moments just before the container
contained its 'tainee.
Still, that's what's inside of the out.
As one jabs at keys, and licks the points
of a million faultering pens,
and dulling pencils,
remembering that stuff, and what it felt like
when they first found it out.
Then there they go,
chasing it until they're dead, and their children love them
more, since they can't speak.