I am out here wishing, though all the stars have fallen. I am out here waiting, though the sun has lost its way. The music rattles, the music hushes, scant cover for the sound of lawnmowers and the insane screams of playing children. The shadows practice their brushwork with a seasoned absent hand, the wind sweeping life down from the sky. Something stirs as the songs keep coming. Something stirs in the dust as the wind all but dies.
Now every ache is suspect. The verses misunderstood all read by the TV light. Sore from the meat in my skull down to the sheen on my slick bones, the pulse on a dimmer switch, the hapless vector permeated with sick and sighs. The song echoes in the clumsy confines of my struggling heart. The song spills through me, as unfeeling and vicious as any virus. The fever holds the rudder however hard the oars rattle and strain. The legions have their way, and the words trickle through this spent and clammy flesh.
Sing out of your loves and longings. Sing out as the stars crackle and spark. The hot air chills to ice all the sudden. You dance amid these hieroglyphs, your chemistry leaps and roils. The broken chain of evidence reeling in your skin. Here the gods, here the demons, here the digits swarm and swarm. Your head swims in this skin of sky and earth, your every blink annihilation, your every breath the sea. I have my say in the sweeping drift of the swaying of the pines. I speak my peace like always, leaving silence all the same.