uncoiled

It’s been the sort of day that ends up this sort of evening, hanging on the chemistry, mouthing every word. It’s the sort of night where the flesh reminds you just how much it feels, where the bruised world around you is just waiting for the wish. All the pent ups at the end of their leashes, ancient chains only bits from the break. The strain and crack of spine and tendon. The old aches shared with you alone. 

Eventually you age out of every consideration. I’m bent and wasted, and lack any wealth, distinction, or prominence. I think I’m an outside dog now. Met mostly with a fence before me. Known mostly by what little I was. There’s sparks burnt across my vision, there’s stones in my walking shoes. Eased into an uncontrolled orbit, disappearing into gleam and myths. Constellations dragging the stories through the sky, the memory of the world that was. 

Still the old ways abide, a thunder through the center, the moon and the tides. We descend into the bright horizons, birthed in our spells and beauty, written on breath and skin. The lost and the bent turning over and over in the lapses in the lexicon, living where the pieces are missed. These dreams of drums and tall flames, the dance of smoke and shadow. The night awakens and uncoils from its bones.