My dreams all live too far away, my days are nearing dust. The world just falls and falls, shadows painting the walls. The bones all woven into place, as if a sign to mark this waste. Read aloud into the ruins, all ambitions ring so false and frail. The gravid breath, the grievous exhalation. The words spill, useless pebbles cast as spells as hearts harden into stone.
The rationale seeps into the tableau, the roots are sated with this sickness. The moon spills out onto the naked pavement, mouths all a-gibber with prayers and curses. All the poems, all the promise saturating the rigid strictures. Structure spelled out in trained tree limbs. Was once never means forever more.
This heart clings to superstition. This heart hopes for the magic implicit in your every touch. The life inside congeals in its suspension, the world walks its beat. Dusk comes, humble and weary of all these lovely sights. I don't speak aloud, so fearful of being heard. I don't ever ask, so certain of your reply. Everything pretends to the rictus of these dull descriptions. I may never speak again.