Half a moon gone already and nothing left to show. It just sits there, hanging there in the midst of sunrise, loitering into day. A cold and sulking stone, lingering amid all those melting stars, waiting while that old world keeps turning. Seeing it stuck up there make me think that something should be done. There ought to be a law, and so on.
Crows mobbing a palm tree, probably startled by an owl headed home to roost, but the reasons are the purest form of speculation. A stunted short-cut based on experience, the written word, and that heady human race towards reasons. Hunting for a causal relation, chasing after the smoldering trail of word after word, looking for that riddle that we are so sure must exist. I make up the kernel of a story I more or less believe, only to walk around the block to be scolded by a solitary crow on watch from a telephone pole. So goes the heart of this apostasy.
Whatever dwells in the distance, whatever hides in the stilted language of our host of holies, whatever we shape with our illusion and mistakes, it is always the heart we are hearing. Not the poetic heart that burns with love or the metaphoric heart that beats the brushes and the fields with its true and vital core. The heart of meat that is the rhythm of our breathing, the bolts that hold the cycling of atmosphere through our living blood that tells us these most basic tales. Life so urgent and clear that we see its earnest shape in the landscape and the firmament. We dream on, telling our ever changing stories. We dream on, the heart beat so imperative, the stars too far.
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