smoke joist

It’s both the language and the spin, the skin all a-tingle, the stacks all astir. It’s the corridors and the alcoves, the skylights and the intersections. The stones and the woodwork, the sizzle and the steak, we always turn up somewhere when and if we wake. The magic is the symbols and how we integrate the soul. The magic in the ratio of blood to ghost.

Let’s not kid ourselves, it’s easy to sit and speculate. Let the smoke climb, let the stars cool, let the world let you have it. All these wag tongue kingdoms, all these wind distributed gods. It’s all fun until you are stretched out upon that altar. It’s all good until the only price is you. So we bask in our power, so we dance in circles around the moon. Joining in the reel while the cold slab of truth watches unblinking from the near periphery. 

Words are full of rooms and hallways, capturing stray want and wander, mingling with the music of being. You never know what you may set upon an unsuspecting reader as they reignite your sign. You never know what you might awaken traveling through the forest of the night. We are so full and so desperately empty, so full of collisions and asides, so busy with every direction at once. The stairways we wander following foot and song. The flame that by burning can only demand more.