My feet braid the traces of everyday trails stepping through the braces of the back door. I scuffle through the plumes of dust, every sense so vivid, slipping on the setting sun. The day failing its saddle like a bent crusader falling into shadows on white sands. The night abrupt a stone in a slipper, adrift in these drizzled stars. All the habits of these stray constellations, the wander tracked all through the halls of this wanting heart.
We are vast and we are ageless, though just the shimmer upon the least stir of dust, the last exhalation of this ever shifting world. This abrupt insistence upon the skins of things, this strange hubris that supposed sentience confides. We are as temporary as the vibrations a voice casts into the crowded atmosphere, the measure of a moment all askew. In the dark I misstep and spill an ashtray, stumbling another turn of dirt, shifting the words to the end of another sentence. Curls of smoke knowing they will forever be remembered across all creation.
Say today and it seems like shaking hands with Mr Obvious. Say tomorrow and they treat it like fantasy. They change the names and juke the numbers, cast their silly spells of words and watches. As if the constraints of punctuation can hold back the endless tide. As if they could know enough to see the shift in the substance, the lay of the waves of light. The dreams that seethe through the dwindle and the dark. The tide of life granted from some depth of the cosmos shall never succumb to something as trifling as will. As if this dance upon the burning path is any less a god because the only thing agreed on is ending.
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