It's enough to make you dizzy. It's enough to steal your breath. Spun along some unseen line, the blunt trajectory of resolute distance lit from either side. You couldn't steer clear with all the room laid bare. You couldn't escape it with forever for a head start. They place their equations, they mumble their spells, spilling salt and alchemy along the least trace of a trail. Split the river or learn to ride it. Blaze the path or learn to find your way through ash and hooves and smoke.
You follow your intuition long enough, you learn to believe any tale. Trust your gut too often, you are bound to swallow some shit. There are always reasons, even when the answers are wrong. There are always roads left open, paths crafted from all the walking away. There are always choices that bleed a few close questions, always some place where penitence would be the wiser way. So much made of the mysterious worker, this croupier daring bets. So many vain spittings of some name the word wears down to the sound of missing teeth.
You can't help but believe the tales that taught you your tongue. They twist and turn, wearing down, pulling inside out. They adorn some ritual, whether prayer or the reason why. They unfold from your very breath, and without wing or flesh they fly. So you strive to catch the toe of your maker, pressed from clay or risen from the writhing dust. So you build some map, or put some model under glass. Flung so far, gone so fast we reach towards our fabricated tomorrows, watching the vastness yawn on and on. Lost so often, dead so long, you long for some spark in the night.