better mousetraps

It’s the next best thing to ink you think as you move to make your case. It’s the way you state it plainly in your actions, the way it spills out when you speak. The dull plod of daily betrayals, the sickeningly sweet scent of the flesh of sacrifice, the default move to escape. This altar of glass and ashtrays, the way the prayer takes the smoke. Knees grinding the grit into the rough wood, the repeated litany, the relinquish of command. You think I’m the one thing you know that I am. You say the words all the same.

We’re like an army, we travel on our stomachs. We’re like an army, it’s all hurry up and wait. From mind to moon, from wish to wound, there’s just no when to say. These writhing indecisions that drag us from door to door, these plot twists and character arcs and evil twins again, fiery sword and thorny crown. The rain to come and the hanged man cut down. Don’t wait for the moon to make you. Don’t wait for the call to come.

All the words aside, you reach from the roots. All roads aside, there’s more than one way to the sun. We make mistakes and replay them looking for the lesson. We make promises to weaken our very word. The moon is out and draped in mist. The fire burns, the star needs no witness. This is the way, the breath, the blood. This is the call. The waking to the word.