reasons to fear

Though the flesh is weary, pressed by heat and impact, crushed by the sunlight and the dwindling blue of the atmosphere, the ritual remains. The ritual endures despite every meaning being forgotten, every reason a relic buried in hot sand. Each movement enshrined deep with-in muscle memory and the burden of bad habit. The flame is tendered, the smoke kissed, the ash cast into the sandy earth. Fire burrows beneath the surface. Fire finds some small portion of all this heat and light.

This skin flecked with ash and pollen, this skin that tastes of salt and smoke, sampled by the blood hungry hordes and other little slips of sight. These hands, harrowed and stained, following their blind courses, riddling out their secret pacts. They reach and stretch, they scratch and grasp. Stubble along a rough jaw, paper stippled with empty words. It transition and in stillness, they replay these rote dances and deathly spells. They twitch and they tremble. They find the fire just the same.

We turn and we tumble, savoring our portions, spitting out the rind. We weave at depths we can not witness, a pattern so broad and familiar it seems always to be there. We turn out these breathless spells and everyday enchantments, counting the minutes, bleeding out each day. The dusk as it settles, the dawn as it cuts. We cup the fire, we swallow the smoke. We extinguish the flame, knowing that it still smolders. We snuff the candle, making up reasons to fear the dark.