A lone crow flies against that last blue left of the sky, seeming somehow like it is leaving only me. I would claim the dark clouds to the west and the latent slab of night growing in the east as well, but the melancholy even of seeming seems enough. The sky drawls on, the crow is gone, and I am the same thing as ever. The pull of change and the weight of sameness, an old saw but the teeth still bite. Wound like a watch, spilling like sand. This is me, every night. Would that there was news, dusk or dawn.
That last light is loveliest as it dwindles in the swaying of the pines. A mocking bird pitches and twirrs from the side of the chimney, spinning music and gossip, rumor and joy from the heights of this dying day. Something precious about the cacophony falling across this shambles. Something of the riot between storms, the contentious feel of every waking moment. Somehow knowing this lonely is the only way I would ever be.
Hours past, left in crumbs and litter in my small human wasting of the night. Television and a hot shower, ghostly chatter and the flickerings of passing traffic. Every day each night unwinds, each night I dread the dawn. A whole life wasted, trying to outlast the times. Every day met in a hushed wish for rain. Such a futile remnant, such a tranquil inferno. Each day a last word spent on such a lovely desolation.
No comments:
Post a Comment