clueless

I always can see it coming, though I never know what it might be. This is the turn that choice makes of us, the chances all happening, the changes rolling up on us slow then all happening at once. The vase full of wildflowers, petals falling on polished wood. You could ask me anything, but all I have are answers. You could ask me anything, if all you want is words.

I often walk the left hand path, the brutal edges still the middle when pressed hard enough. So it is flecks of ash and breathing kerosene, a naked back and these wandering hands. A gaze that can not ease into any vision, days that play out like any natural fire. Animal cravings and spiritual longings are only matters of semantics. Chances are the truth eludes you. Chances are the worst mistakes are yet to come. Idle amid smoke and clamor. Hold the line while every soul around you dwindles.

The skies are livid, flecked with vapor and painted like the eyes of rough invasion. So bright, so clear, so without remorse or tender telling. The wind runs wild, kicking up butterflies and dust. The air so relentless, the earth so thirsty, all my passions left to cool on the windowsill. All my longings left to dry out on the porch. The world trickles by, alight with toil and splendor. I smoke and stare, just another stranger smiling without a clue.