The hours drain from my eyes, ink for the unwritten tome. Steady shadows mix with flashing lights, growing and shrinking every import I know. What I see, how I feel, the trembling music of old passions and burnt ash. What ever there is in me left, I offer, absent of any other visible choice. What ever I haven't written, I lost in whole. The words left trailing me, I lose with each instant.
I must wait, for all the ache and lonely. I must wait, for all the numbers to crunch, the eggshells I must pace, speaking bluntly to the wind. If you had it in you, you would have spent it by now-- some lucky strutter or some spattered flame. If it was there, it is entirely out of the range of casual sacrifice to the empty and the night. Bouncing only the balls I dropped. Catching only a hint of the ruckus bound to defy expectation.
Tell me now, despite the inconvenience. Tell me now, despite the stained breath of desperation and this last sustained note of lost music. I ask you from these sticks and stones, the wrecked scripture and the destroyed homes. I ask you from these houses built of green kindling and doomed straw, from the smokey depths that seem inevitable. Take my word, or take my hand. Wait with me through these hollow motions. Wait with me until the east lights vague and the rain rules the streets. I only ask for miracles because they are all I have left of praying.
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