My hands are always empty, my head is always split. Years of beatings shaping knuckles and skull, the depth of earnest bruising a shadow cast by every smothered hope. Finger reach and fingers grasps, somehow always slipping, somehow always bereft at the moment of contact. All the holes bored through the brain by the usual demons, neglect a crop with deep roots and sharp thorns. Even the words grow sick, grown in such questionable soil.
The flesh errs, mistaking sparks for soul. The hunger and strife and ache and error, all these dead leaves and dying flora. The blind trembling tissue, the busy cells, the burdened blood. It is all downhill, this human tale. From the tools of myth to the conceit of religion. From the plains to the mountains to the forest rife with ghosts. From sea to sea, these shining symptoms, this splitting pain. The example elaborates, the rule never proven by exception. Down from the high mountain, the words of god dead on arrival.
The sky is blue, it sweats through the dismayed spectrum, resonance and bandwidth and the writhing of this mortal coil. Heat is drizzled through a sifting breeze, curling a cruel lip to reveal such brilliant teeth. I hunch and shuffle through the light and dust, head split and heart just soaked with regret. Stones cluster in their station, singing a song of lingering dissolution. The earth mutters its mad promise, flood and fire and certain doom. Waiting for yesterday at the bottom of the sea. Sad and certain, and in this vast decline. The sun devours all tomorrows.
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