The bass line is a ruin, shuffling beneath the skin of the tune. The hallways glut and cough, the window seep wan light. Keyboard clicking out signals made from electric anonymity, all smooth plastic and dry fingers. The wind spills and spills, piling leaves over every surface, covering every clue. Dusk is a token of tenderness, adrift on these swells of blood and light.
Each notion skirts a word that will never be uncovered. Each thought is a stone tossed in the sea. The earth tilts and spins through the depths of oblivion, our star tethered to our hearts. The chain of reflected energy sunken and absorbed, the evidence of our dizzying freedom displayed as we whirl and fall. Pulling at the skirts of eternity, dancing and dancing with stones crowding our toes.
What remission of this disease of language, what alchemy in encoding these sounds in scribbles and digits--. The oily sorcery of poetry such a lost fortune, such a wreck sunken in the reef. The songs that spill from impassioned lips forever entombed in these strings of bare intent. Typing by a single bulb, winnowing away the laden branches, parsing back all but the least loved, the most close to forgotten passions. Bereft of everything, the spell is cast into the harrowing depths. Words lapsed from language, awaiting a vessel, awaiting a breath.
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