archival

It’s a strange season for changing states in. The edge of the weather, walking towards the tide. Some distant drifting day flashing passed, in a rolling storm just passing youth. The summary you come to with the numbers coming in. October slowing by day and degree, the cold a taste and a testament to changes raging on. The slow dark lonesome, a life of long plodding night. The words come to their own conclusions.

I’m always waiting on the rain. I’m waiting for my day in the old forest, that dream of epicenters. The voice that told me to return to the earth. The story told til the bones go dirt. The angle of the light, the depth of the spell. The words until they’re all that’s left. The fever long gone out.

I realize I am already among the artifacts, the failing limbs, and nameless deaths. The days go on for days. They ache for change in their constituency, the turning of the plot. Some scribbled over tired remainder, some bygone tethered to the alphabet. No matter where the words leave you, they’ll find a way to carry on. The chapters by their names and the never ending test.