Again I wake to sheer bewitchment, I sup on sacrifice. The days unravel from monotony to amusement, from shock to terror. Come morning I am papered with wrappers, nightfall I am plastered with shadows. Nothing gets much traction, out where things have ended. I begin and then it is over, I finish and then it all starts again. Is it any wonder I keep checking the clock and the sun? Is it any wonder that I lose my place so often? Time entangled with all this life. Pick the number and say the line. Hope gets sorted out on its own.
There is a brace of sunlight upon the shards. There is a stirring in the atmosphere, a presence in the tense. Each branch keeps time, the music silent and unceasing. The sway and weave of the world as it turns. Each tree casts its shadow to mark its place in the sky. I still to listen, and only hear my my heart stagger. I slow to think on it, and only hear my thoughts caught on the wire. Broken chairs and dirty windows, nowhere to sit, nothing to see. The broken bough lies in the dirt and rocks, its sickness crystalized on severed stumps. Stretched out in the soft autumn sun, everything reaching for the sky.
Someone else has cast this shadow. Someone else has walked this path. The sun in its socket, the moon beneath the tide. The century ends in beats and reason. The calendar turns to its tables, the worm turns to its task. The dead clamber at the latches, they press the hasp and the hinges, popping screw and pin. Such stale portions, served without question. Such dull answers, pretending they were never lies. These horror stories we keep in the tide of feeling flesh. This dark comedy every time I open my eyes. Hope another placeholder, waiting for a play.