the bell always rings but was never struck

he always fought so hard against the source;  
as is the merit of the manifestation,  
but now she whispers to him pet names  
leaving intimate traces of her sonar signature  
 
she assures him of his specific set of hands;  
the hole in the right thumb, the nails bit  
to painful conclusions across each digit,  
in the music that moves his worn fingers  
to wrap around dayglo gilded eggshells  
and mold them into impossible lifespans  
every one more interested in their progeny  
than their own maturity  
 
an adorned silence then  
offering a name to each finger  
each name a thousand cheeks  
for him to trace in cherish  
 
impossible these lifespans  
never to breathe  
or recede  
 
never to long for source