So goes the figment of progress. So goes the adhesion of hope. Bright eyed tomorrows and painted on skies fill your eyes, the future of your blood blended with the grease of smudged air and the stories carried from burden to broken. You doze and scheme, you twitch and plot, caught in yet another trap. The lies that come as easily as love, the stone in the hills, the clearing in the shadowed wood. The wheel grinds it all away, the wishing stars we are made from to the innocence squandered. Gone goes on and on.
The weather takes its chances, the tree in the yard stretching green towards heaven, my coffee and my hands so cold. I plod through common causals, stumbling between uncertain footing and the stubborn ground I stand upon. Fingers stained with tobacco and neglect, teeth all sorts of broke. I sit still as the winds rise, with my circus skill set and my unmet needs, burning all my temporary. The things I hoped to hold all past my reach, my potential now residing in foolish crime. I get a grasp on the situation just as it slips my grip, taking fresh flesh and the little understanding left me. The repetitions I crave subject to the commotion of entropy planting its failing flag. Falling with the familiar orbits, spinning beneath a glaze of condensation and stippled stars. The bubble always ready to burst.
You ascend as I dissolve, a story everyone knows and still gets wrong. Mistaken for some other, pinned to the board as the essence dwindles, counted out as this or that while you float like prayer. The very air adores you, the wind rises just to touch your hem. All your tomorrows sown with echoes and retreads, a prophecy of indulgent progeny threaded through your ancestors unto the end of time. I spit bitter bars as the song eludes me, some reckless ocean, some ruthless rocks running through my lungs. Left to dither in the litter of other lives while your story steals everything that isn’t nailed down. Knowing me better than I know myself the same thing as knowing nothing at all
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