I wear the mantle of rendered ash, the loud palaver of pots and pans, that bargain bet of life for life. These tired sacrifices of flesh devoured first by unseen hordes, of ghosts given up again and again, talking to brush fires and following corpses. Vampire wine and savior cookies, the rituals we save to hide our crimes. The cowl of common confusion, the bindings of dog eating dog. I speak in circles, always out of turn.
Was I waiting for the wings to find me? Was I watching for the risen to return unscathed? The packed dirt and the dry dust despite the rain. The sky cut to ribbons and loosed to the wandering wind. Learning the words does not make you part of the chorus. Knowing the language does not mean you are not forever foreign to the tongue. The world turns, and I turn with it. I'll make up anything else when it looks useful. I'll play along until something useful arises.
The meal is finished and the dishes are soaking. A froth of soap bubble cradling grease and oil. Labor and respite folding into labor and respite. Never mind the army, it is all hurry up and wait. This sphere finding the middle in every twist and turn. The mind will wander into ruin, into realms of gods and devils, into threats and magic spells. Unhinged from the body the mind is a ghost among ruins, a specter in the wastes. Unfurl your wings and bear forth your flaming swords. Every feast begins with some degree of slaughter.
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