The angels of my better nature left, too unnatural to follow the obvious course. The open road closes in, a hunt for hope, a wish for wings. Tail-lights and near misses, the constant bombardment of brutal motion in all this imagined stillness. Lessons are not learned early enough. The truth is out there, waiting at the end of some path, lurking in broad daylight. The truth is out of luck, invisible and wholly besides the point.
The flesh leans on the precipice. The song arrives from some place bewilderingly lovely. There are the usual collisions, matter to meat to impulse to thoughts to thinking. The abridgment of these flawed pathways and dubious senses. The flesh aches and pauses. Some lilting sentiment, some fragile truth. The music almost makes it okay. Almost turns out to be close enough.
Hours too late, comfort comes. Small and unyielding, subtle and alight with flame and doubt. The old wounds, the new aches, the sad tendencies of nature, the too typical failings-- they all voice their opinions. They slowly subside, becoming hints and memories. Directions overlooked on a crumpled map. No kiss, no respite, no sign of better days ahead. Just the graceless nature of weariness. The levity of mortal limits the only path left.