The smoke has long since gone, lost as it was to the wind and sky. The dusk billowed in out of the open sky, and the trees caught the last of the light. Even the cement changed color, laying right there in the open. All the reasons mingle with wishes, every certainty eventually torn down.
I am a poet of complacency, measuring the rich limits of my own indolence. Words escape me in their way, all paint and trumpet. Words evade my every waking moment, hiding in some black glass depths even in my dreams. I romance the fire for love of ashes. I wear the weather just below the dismal albedo of my skin.
Loneliness can sound like anything. It is the one universal language, the most native of human tongues. It bears the flavors of longing, wears the flesh of romance. It is tattooed the staunchest blue, ripened to the deepest black. The stars ride the ripples in the atmosphere, my least inkling dissolved long ago. The night where I walk in circles around the empty where I grow my bones.
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