We never worry when the world goes off. The twilight fascinations and the exponential expansion of the imagined. Fairy wings bring bloody appetites to mingle with our skin. All the stars just sparks and embers, the breadth of longings lost to absence and smoke. All these dreams blended fresh from these endless fevers of want and misunderstanding. The lights go low and every haunted morsel of our minds run wild.
Another thought runs a crease across my brow. Another sentiment is weathered into my face. I grind pine needles beneath my feet, the subtle crush of fall running through my every step. I bow slightly before the press of pine boughs, crowned by star and limb. The dogs cavort as an airplane passes. The smoke pauses for a moment, then rises out of sight.
We huddle and we wander, finding fire, trailing smoke. We dream with-in this vivid skin, we paint our pictures upon the surface tensions of our unraveled senses. The way revealed painted by our every long and lack. Soup to nuts the certain is only found in the dim reaches of small circles. Follow the glimmer of the farther fire or learn the secrets huddled on the edge of the night. Our history spelled out in breath and stride. The burden of the road traveled, the sweetness of the road to go.