The eyes in the shadows, staring at the tree whipped sky. The mind a couple of bridges away. The song sways low and gutters the gravel, the wind saying “whoosh” now and again, the onomatopoeia unsettling to say the least. Sometimes they don’t even try to hide it, mix the palette with the made up parts, the thinking fixed to the frame. Voices carry whenever there’s a way, whether the wind or the inkwell words. There’s a trick to this, but I don’t know it. There’s a treat in living that just won’t stick.
The flesh is the only tender, offered on the altar, rendered it the pit. Outside of kin and culture the value is caloric, the worth is weighed on a scale. You turn and tread and spread your blood, you plant and stray and lose your flocks. Cracks in the clouds turn to cracks in the sky, the fertile fields to ash. The enemy has its hands on the arsenal, it has its fingers in every pie. The words will rise and fly all over. The flesh will again bear the brunt.
There is a wilding to the wind. There is a shifting of the stones. Old gates are opening, the forgotten firsts awake and silent. This deep, blazing breath before the dive into cataclysm, the future only fuses burning towards our end. I sit still despite the gauntlets tossed, my inheritance built to be spent at once, a brutal spasm of springs and ligaments with maybe a little conflagration to top it off. I see it as momentum gaining mass, a series of impacts we have failed to group for, a few more rolls until the bridges and buildings shake apart like water shook off a dog. I do nothing but want someone who never wanted me, and wait to be called out, or culled outright. The wind rises, the first lapping wave washing away.
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