The calendar will get around to it, given enough time. Sometimes the dates slip past unnoticed. Sometimes they play the scales, and all the moments stranded on the chord dance their ringarosies around the mind. A reminder of the value of best wishes and glad tidings, the way meaning can put you through it out of the blue blazes. A reminder that sometimes it only goes one way. The words left to the bare walls and grimy floors. The feeling you’ll have to find.
What good are the blessings of the expunged, breathless prayers from some vague, vast beneath? Why should I gather posies for the ghost of a great disdain? Less merit and more worth, the memory still favors you. Your manners taut as you moved on, all this wishing turned to wound. The inevitable hurts the way it’s bound to, however hard regards the prophecy. I scratch and spit, dragging on with it. I’d light a candle if I could.
The years peel off and melt away, burnt and blended to the myth and the bent. The dogs bark until they die off and other dogs do their barking. The light of some longed after dawn, heavily dreamt on, no likely arrival in sight. The songs of some old man’s youth, the dust on the breath of the muse. We sing in expanse and attrition, circles around the fire, a sharing of rendered air. I leave a flame for you to wish on, and pay you in smoke.
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