threads left

Are there ashes in my beard, are there embers still with-in my eyes? The words trail off like the twilight horizon, first there's sun, then so many long lost stars. There are never enough to cover the spread, little left to go around. The mind settles on its earthly mirror, chance always seen as destiny in the histories of the survived. The prophecies only stir the ashes, wishes set in stone, prayer a matter of habit and grammar.

I kiss each breath, I court each stone. The sky is all stripes and stars as I move slowly in the dark. Once the way was just to find the path, the wisdom was only to keep the fire burning.  The wheels slip and trawl, they spin and spin. The world takes its tribute and makes its claims, however the story chosen goes. I find each morsel, I savor each bite, clinging to the map like smoke. I clear my throat and speak aloud, no-one to hear me but the trees and the heavens.

I am of an age where I feel each weakness, where the light dims and the shadows swell. The world just the threads left hanging, these crowded lines just the limits of our reach. The rags of habit, the gleam of bones, the voices haunt the empty home. The clocks defends, the clock confesses, honesty another kind of worn down. I do not think I cling to anything of matter when I grace the ghostly precipice. The burden of encoding these last aches and wants linger on my tongue and breath. The words will fail like anything, a thrilling spill, a gentle fade. You are that mark that remains. I can only know you as a blessing, the way you are so much I want. I can only know it as a fire that wants to find me in its glow.