You mistake the way I point my star for the direction I intend. A shift in color one way or another, a trembling before the eyes. Half a moon waning in the daylight, another secret you seem to infer. I work my way around the compass, making short work of the map. Lost is the same direction from everywhere. Looking costs the same either way.
Dust fills the air and the skies are all the same. A lick of paint, a bit of tape, a loose bird or two. The sun goes one way while the world runs the other. My scars and symbols stick to all this sweat and dirt, time spent and roads traveled. My eyes set for the still distance as all the lights go down. I am there when the song rises and perches on the tale. I am where the moon settles, stretched over earth and stone. I might muff up the ambiance, but I add to the atmosphere.
I ride here on the river of dusk, along the tide that climbs the cusp of night. The light diminishes and the shadows rise. The stories grow thin here in these wan and glowing moments. The monotony of transition itself a cause for myth. So goes the morning star rising in the night. The language misplaced us all, sold in slips and pieces, traded in snips and snails. I am marked, this ink runs through me, red river and breathless wind. Fall or rise it is me my star must follow. That cold dark comet spilling fire sometimes.
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