The skies are written down in paces, the tightening horizon, the stir of scattered wanderers. The night fills in every crevice, every corner spark and stun. The clots of stars reveal the mystery, the story spread out in billions in all directions. From weary myth to dizzying theory. The aching span of sense and thought. Words come as riot, words come as consolation. Never enough breath to speak the truth.
Sleepless so long that sleep becomes the dream, dark eyes and pale tresses. The strange entanglement of stray implications conspire with the slipping of each sense. The world blurs as we revel in intentions. Distracted by these rituals we fashion absolutes. The birds all gather on branch and line, waiting out the storm and mitigating risk. The flock becomes another kind of faith, safety always coming there once the numbers grow too high to count. Eyes barely blink as the shadows gather. The darkness rises, eyes just there to stare.
So much for that one in a million. The odds lean long as these billions propagate. Pressed in against all this air and feathers. Held down by the sky and lifted by the trembling earth. The dull mind drags as the lexicon lingers. Something to say now that the prayers have ended. Something to say now that all the poetry has moved on. The wonder wanders on, farther than that muddied up horizon. All this ache and empty, the vast expansion abounds. All this want and hunger, the magic dying slow.