the worn road

The story before is the story you know, to know the storied hero of lunch box and action figure on the way to glory. To be so certain of the way words play. The evidence always imminent. The twist the point of all further evangelisms. The symbol the very paramount of what they said. I am a telling of ten thousand summers. I am a prophet of the coming wilderness. The weary cadence of the sad believer. The story certain it wants said again.

The story fresh upon the lips, more luscious in each telling. The break from looming consequence a giddy surrender. These dreams I have, these dreams I want. The insistence on the collar and all the corollaries. We lay the blame on these appetites, the bare direction of want, and the insistence on innocence. The simple notion of your closeness. This sigh while I wait to sleep.

Again my heart is on the water, the starry seas of faraway. Again I want in sleepover light, the popcorn movie and your sovereign eminence. The waste and want of days lived against the common refrain. This swim upstream against the rush of command. Here at the ache of intersection, the returned gaze and I told you sos.