Enough of the cobwebbed windows. Enough of the somber streets. Enough of the stars run by remote, the skies left in sheets and shreds. The clasp of light, the drift of hands. The night that falls again and again. The words that want and wander, always lost beyond limits. Something needs to end.
The nerves have frayed. The dust has settled. The reasons just run on and on. Decay settles beneath every skin. Bones gasp and strain, the flesh too dense and final. Nothing is ever alright.
Somehow the light always finds you. Somehow the mood always shifts. There is the grace that radiates, the beauty that abounds. Everything is always in flux. You find yourself beneath that sky, another poem, another prayer. The past trails away, another breath, another breath.