The stretch of day, the pause of darkness. The vetted prayers, the hollow heart. It doesn't matter, that dry click is always there. That fateful plunge into the rollicking tide. That razor whetted smooth and thin. All the worn through remembrances that always call, waiting for the wind to shift. Awaiting all the weight to break.
The eyes can not close, the dreams can not relent. All the choicest epithets slip so easily into the air, yet root so steady in the blood. The sickness is tethered, this self ever the goat, always the offering. It all winds down with the dwindling gray, the too cute blue. Colors that come in only tides and clouds.
There are depths that sit silent, places where the light never will quite suffice. There are moments where waking only creates the lesion in the dream. Where the world falls down, bright and suspect. Where the ocean chills, legions adrift. The shape of every clutch and drag. Anchors sunken beneath the sea.
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