the wheel

We come upon another notch, and the circle starts over, a dash of day and the elongated dark. Only the broad strokes go for broke. Only bone and brisket, we pile on the swag. Dragons perched on piles of tomorrows. The enmity in our identity, the treasure maps, and magic spells. We light ourselves on fire and blame the world for burning. These numbskull cries for mercy for those who only view us as fuel. Death worshipers pushing you into the queue, skittering on the bones of meaning. The coming tide that we will break. This ever plodding campaign.

The words wind up and walk us on a sacrifice. The words get turning and dash us all about. The earth is grim and giving, and sets a dire covenant, but the words are a hungry swarm, all ritual and appetite. They walk the waves of annihilation through fields of brick and beef. These old blood tithes of our better angels. The offerings we bear and take. The wheel insistent in its intentions.

The day relents and the night becomes, we fix upon distant consistencies and the gods of confirmation bias and cognitive dissonance. I feel the moon move through me, a brief respite in the grinding of mortal gears. A stretch of breath, and the next ache to settle. The far hearts and old hungers. The burdens of the years accumulate. I turn until the wheel wears out.