It's been a dry spell for all the rain dogs, the sorties of spring and the summer's retreats. Every bit of steam stole from some sliced up indignation. Every bit of bile choked out the hard way. This illness is always overtime. This sickness stays up nights. I write a little less every time. There are only so many words that stick around.
Every other story is stuck in some desert. Every other mouthful is thick with dust. The dry air slows down the cycle, rot crawling in seasons and alongside pipes. The history buried already, without the impetus to dissolve. These desiccated places always leave something. The treasure that nothing living could stomach becomes the proof that providence meant. The dog sick in the tall grass becomes the god of all tomorrows. The garbage heap kept far from the river the halls and barrows of ancient kings.
All my thoughts rot away like fruit. Everything I ever said is lost on the wind. The dust bucks and the shadows lean, the air painted in sparkles and shit. The sky wants to take its toys and go. I lose word after word, spilling them into keystroke. I lose words to sentences and lines. Each impulse, each touch, each abstraction. Stuck in the spark before the fire. Stuck in the anticipation before every open book. Always the lost that somehow linger. Always longing to skip all the paperwork, and go right to the end.