The sun spills out across the long drawl of yards and houses feeding lawns and trees as they ease their magic for the day. Traffic and packs of bicycles slide on by. A pregnant neighbor walks her resolute toddler down the block, stopping to strategize about a pacifier, before waving and heading on down the road. Some frou-frou truck rattles past, shaking with dopplering bass. Breathing is a slow deep burden, work that leaves me sore and spitting. My heart is both ends of beaten, an unloved but stubborn machine, keeping time while time keeps unwinding the flesh.
Oh, for the songs and stories. Oh, for the snuffed out love and squandered hearts, the waste and the wander and the calendar full of exed out days. All the children and the poems and the dashed brains of the silly hopes that sustain through the darkest days and the dead eyed nights. The snips and strings and sweet soft things that hold the husk to the grind of life. The schemes that seemed close to fruition always out of reach, leaving the litter of feelings and failings to dwell in these laden bones. Everything eludes save these empty words, and the work of breath and blood and tears. Though weighed down and a little fearful, there is some small relief in the hope that the ghost will go away.
Life is a precious swarming, a chiding of the ruthless forces that blaze and claim the seething stillness as their own. These great rings danced around the brilliant, fading grace of creation. These cycles that bind the sunlight and glum matter to the great aimless guts of god. It isn’t transcendence, because there is nothing to transcend. It’s here, or it was here, or it is arriving. Eyes opened wide, this universe thrives on the short game, while the long con of life is gone before it blinks. A couple of neighbors mean mug me before retreating into their lair. The shock and splendor unending while I sit here, waiting around to die.
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