I can't tell if it is smoke in the air, I can't tell if it is dust in my eyes. The day is a blur, the winds are changing. It isn't what the cat left buried. It isn't what the dog dug up. There's always some season to explain it all. Always some theory here to sacrifice. I take it in while the fields are burning. I write that the world burns yet again.
Somehow I am still that sword once broken, somehow always the secret lost. You live the story long enough see how you get sorted out. A glimmer in some telling, a question forgotten long ago. Ancient claims of worth and wonder, battles taken and loves unbound. Receipts and maladies, scars and stitches. Kisses that linger while the fire burns on. The prophet at long last at a loss.
I hem and haw, I shuck and jive. Always hard at work going nowhere. Always changing channels, searching for just one song. Time only ever tells us what it wants. We weary our way throughout these skins of oblivion. We trod our way into a whole other world. The abrupt discoveries, the slick incantations, all this evoking air. Every layer another scripture. Every bit deeper the unyielding hosts. The firmament always astir, however steady the course. The moment always burnt down to the bones.