Once before the sun came up the day began as rain. There were ripples in the road ways and ribbons on every windshield, the sky coming down in woes. Every trifle was a trial, every ghost the most. The words so thick it seemed a parody. The tangled feel of scene and sound, the rain dangling braids of gray. And all the wish, and all the want washed steadily away. The empty chimed its favorite curse while the water whispered and schemed. The dream is all but undone says this tide of secret bones.
So they chart the course of condensation, they
paint the sky with eyes. The numbers gather and hone their suspicions.
The words awash with reach and root. The tether of aprehension and the
texture of unknown prospects. These haunted halls worn raw through work
and care. These hopeful nets stretched across the deluge, almost running
into someone they ought to know. The nuance all in the fret and breath,
the press of the world that our limits allow. Forever this kiss of
flesh and precipice. Just because I missed it, doesn't mean I do not
know. That graceful placement, all the ways that saying might make it
I know the laspse and feel the phrasing. Like it was almost
made to say. That strange malinger language insists at every edge, these
licenses always the purient conceit. It takes a cliff to ask a
question, a tiger to truly disagree. The life that spontaneously
generates, arising as much out of custom as out of skin. The adhesion of
thoughts that exceed to the material enchantment. The spell that silks
between us and all, this simple thing said aloud. We are the spell that
comes from speaking. We are all the lies we hide.