There comes a day when the clocks and calendars abruptly stop chasing their tails, when the sunken stones begin speaking as clearly as the summer sun, when the murmuring earth and the whispering trees all sharpen the distant points of long ago stars. All the misfit dreams that haven't starved or broken settle on a shelf full of sheafs of dust and chronicles, their songs left to music box and calliope. The grizzled beard goes gray as the steel and granite empty from your bones. Your foolishness and your wisdom all sound just the same. The days, though ever as seperate and varied, all linger in this foreboding dusk as the long cruel night begins.
You find the break, you mind the cut, you feel the rain fall in the strumming beneath your skin. Heavy hands and rocky hearts, how far that wishing star? Every certainty some fairy story, some lullaby that trails off before sleep is called. The air trembles with motors and musc, the rumble of unkempt engines and the thunder of a untamed bass. The sky is all kinds of blue. You wait for the stars, you're always waiting on a sign only you can signal. The affirmations of change settling in your skin.
You go green with envy, you see red in rage. You see your chances dwindle as you abide the bent and burn of this new and unfriendly world. The stars come out, drizzled in distance and the secrets of creation. The victors bang their drums and thump their chests, unaware that your power is only kept in check by etiquette. The stories toss and tumble, while you draw down hard upon your roots. Let them claim and libel, their tongues the only flags they follow. The blood still boils through you, vital and indomitable with the anthem of your breath. Time is to be told.