These dreams were fed to the fire, the tattered comforts blazing so bright. This dawn was painted in the window while the motor was running. A stranger loosed upon strangers, glassy-eyed and wondering at the burn of it. The tired roll-call of the day and the day once more, the shadow cast casually aside. Thirst and hunger and a warry hand. Exhaustion bound to the intricacies of the clock, breaths just ticking away.
You moved in the stillness of the depths of sleep. Your eyes smoldered where there was no light. That heat, your gaze filling up the empty corners, washing away this scratchy skin. In the mysteries of another lost day, in the hollow sanctity of laden sand, in the lost words and ached for phrasings just this warmth is missed. That foundry of your stride, the metronome surety of your hips in motion and in repose. All awaits that sacrifice.
The day is fashioned from cameras. The day is made of lapse and fret. The time given up to the inclinations of children and the duties of the clinical bent. The hours left upon the altar of little left to do. Already the sky fills the window, and a thousand tiny tasks squeal and stomp. Everything awaiting this purported cause. Everything culled for the want of labor and the inevitability of work.
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