Time goes on, what may what must. And still the sword cleaves to the stone, the great bow unstrung in the hall dotted with old dogs and suitors. Jesus still runs on messiah time, and the extra place remains empty every year. The thunderer hasn't perished in the jaws of that last monster, each calendar never the last. You'll don't show each and every night again, and still just the thought of your maybe gets my motor going.
The song unwinds as the light catches the tv screen, my clumsy typing keeping the worst of time. The voice rings and doves coo, the song tumbling down sweetly, sticking to every sense. I crack my neck, leaning into the pry bar of prophecy, flush with every gasp of descent. Bricks splint so long ago that what ever the had built is all but forgotten. Gravel buried in the ages gathered outside my open window, wind and sirens and the neighbors' unruly hounds. Meaning clustered between breath and tooth and tongue, the mind wandering the world, feeling like it just missed.
Each night there's nothing new, though everything just keeps happening. It isn't the lay of the land or the play of the light as you turn. It isn't your shadow mingling with the worrying of moth wings, the breathless kiss against the dim lit fence. Songs play again anew, traffic drifts and strays. The moon and the stars and the planets. Births and graves and that gaze that lingers far too long. Your dream or some other's, something is bound to come true. The air is empty and still I see you. The furthest star past the end of days.