A lonely road runs through where once were wings. Some spacious sanctioning of the heart, this blood all boil or tumble. Some reach that spurns the infinite, this wild and insistent wind. They say it is only the excess of grasp that makes it seem so hollow. They say it is only the breath of want that makes it all so hard. The light grows dim, the lights go on. The rest just the itch along the root of sight.
The clarity itself is the comfort, as the details stick. The only ease that comfort run down from gear and spring. The stretch of a shadow, the crack of a spine. Breath at last a relevance, the flesh a sudden the spirit sung in time. Bones knit and brows furrow. Kisses almost close to true.
The road runs as parley against the map. It goes only where it seems to go, and so seems rough and pure. Some Disney scented princess, full of song and spine. It is the reason and the rock, the story as it unwound. It is all touch and covet, and claims bound by oath and blood. The twilight blue and dismal hunger. I only want and want.