What ease is there in the ache, seeing that remembered symbol, that bloom of what will be again. What comfort in the eyes finding that skyline, a darkness bereft of stars. That mumbled poetry, that certainty that poverty can only evoke. That sense of architecture always meant to be. Scratching after my beard, the absence the only bend left any pleasure. The nerves plugged into some socketed incandescence, a reckoning pure and eternal.
All the reason left are for searching the skylines, our feet long ago tricked into feeling always the solid ground down to the bone. We beg the horizons to find that difference we clearly lack. The best predator always being a joyful solemnity in being sure that it is the only one hunted. Knowing how to read making the part of it in writing only that much more so. That plan that escapes notice is still always just a plan.
So we will always find a way to call down the lightning. Always aware that invention is only so many more names for sin. Our skin seeps symbols, inked in the due course of natural fire. Burning always that one fleeting shape, branded to mark the stitches of arrival. Burning only another way to pass the time. Evidence is all that is left.