There is this dismal wonder, the rain barely speaking, the sadness stuck shoes and the pavement before the cage. This bare faced ease of flesh reflecting light. This life so heavy with the press of this sky. I stare at the lion, I stare at the tiger. I cry, not knowing either woe or joy. The gods kept in bottles, overwhelmed with dust and books.
I watched the rain, and I watched the roads. Temper was something lost so long ago. This skin all scar and fury. My gaze tucked tight along the rails that run toward each horizon. Each sight drilled in and bolted to the frame. That prestige of thorns and roses. That magic thought of heaven when it bleeds.
There are no secrets left, just coupons and recipes. There is no surprise waiting, just the suspense of hinges and doors. You think you have made arrangements. You believe that you have cut a deal. There is always a bigger picture. There is ever an after after your story is told. You hold the plan, you made frame. Then the words arise, and everything is left to folding. That last promise lingers, nearly leaving your lips.