What of all these winds and whispers? The drift of the song, the spill of the moon. The pieces of mislabeled prayer still sharp in the white hot sands. The mirror of heat and atmosphere distracting from the notable absences. The words still slavering from every mouth, strange and indelicate, as if the point of speech was too polish teeth. Dumb gods leaving dumb holes in every heart. The song just won't shut up.
Always my dead poets, forever my lost love. Moments measured in the depth of shadows cast. Out here where I become part of the problem, this endless cycle of bluff and crash. Fragments doppler out from their ghostly sources. Rippling like the attentions of some spell, washing through in waves and impacts. Dense belts of tethered air bruising every soul they sweep. The proclamations claimed of flesh and bone. I spit out a mouthful of grit and promise, rumbled to the core. I peel back the translucent skins of each syllable, blind to all my crimes.
I don't know how I got here, I don't even know where I went wrong. The gusts and gales and usual suspects. The pomp and threat and every damned day. The steady ache of atrophy echoing from my bones, the easy blues of the grifter, the henhouse always either roostered or foxed. Burnt pictures and tattered letters. The cold wind lapping the pale moonlight. Every witness either lost roads or dead stars. The song splitting fences and gnawing bone.
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