The stars fill up the margins, the ink stains every wish. Words standing on each others shoulders, words buried in the sand. I read a little and mark my place. A tiny crease tells me I have been too rough on the pages. Heavy hands, hollow hearts, and this restless appetite read in between.
I have been neglecting my reading. Slips of paper awaiting my attentions as I favor urgent reports. My writing suffers its congenital defects, neglect and fervor too often intersect. I make schedules and I miss deadlines. My work suffers mostly from having only me to complete it.
Already I forget the list. Already I am too tired to mention. I scatter some shavings of charm and chance, trying too hard not to look into the light. The sky turns in steps and measures, we fall away from every little dazzle. Tar smoke hides the constellations. I hear a strange animal, its breath ragged and labored. Listening to the raw painful wheeze, I realize it is me. Only art can tell you when it is done. Only life has a say in this undoing.
No comments:
Post a Comment