spectrum

The drear hits hard as the days grow dire, the chill in the wind, the slow in the step. The world goes on, never a wonder for my want. The world goes on, as bad as they can get away with. I lie on my bed and stare at the lamp, trying to temper bone and flesh with a flex to flush the blood. I ache and wish well past my station, watching as the good’s ground down by murderous buffoons and tiresome demons. Illness in the house and sickness in the streets. Doom comes thundering and I’m just getting warmed up. 

The lonesome grows sharp and hungry, bares its bones to the looming season, smiling like a skull. Hour after hour of wish and word, whittling away at the staves of the day, shaping sunsets around clumsily stepped circles. Pressing kisses against the heartache horizon as the sun goes away, watching the moon glide by towards your mind’s eye, looking to the constellations for a clue. How sad we stay, how hard we hurtle. The least wind a savagery, the night named now.

The stories I tell myself never quite scan. An exchange of words, and something happens. No more words, and everything ends. I know I won’t ever quite get it, not when my heart gets started. The gone says so much more, but I hardly ever listen. I set the steps in place as the wind whips and the sun runs off. I wish and want, I work the words but the words don’t work, the awful empty night rises. I see past the horizon, I see through the earth, but there’s always more bandwidth to miss. I would ask you, but I’ve already been told.