blessed

Maybe I lit a candle, maybe I burned some incense. Maybe I made peace between me and the great unseen, rain falling all at once. So I spread my action around these wants and wounds, the tin roof patter almost a balm amongst these banes. Where the word touches, where the word turns, the way glass grays with condensation when bound by lung and lip. So the world is wept over, so the moon marks the whispers between blood and spirit. Threadbare and strung along, the fabric and the feeling. Oh the way you mark the morning. Oh, the way you bat the lash.

The sky is seamless shifting, story after story all the way to the stars. This tattered flesh, so worn and weary, wails and wails. The fire in the socket, the gravel in the gut. On and on through endless takes of enough’s enough, this prescient imbalance of being and burn, this haloed absence this earthly return. I am a flag for the tatters, I am an unfurling fit to the wind. Alone in the raging night, served by kindness and coincidence alike, I serve the witch’s shift. I bear the brand of heavy blessings and abandoned campaigns. Propped in an armchair, reaching up the skirts of the dreaming. The day ends again in ruins.

It’s the sort of flame that can’t be extinguished. It’s the sort of midnight that shows up all hours. Once consecrated, the altar’s always on. The signals it receives, the static of the constellations dragged down the years. Shards of pottery and burnt bones, postcards and fetishes and the power of intent. Write something down, let it yellow into irony or feed it to the fire. Whisper the name of your beloved kiss close against their neck. Once we are gone, we are gone for good. Blessed once, the savor never recaptured, not feast or figment. The benediction an aura clinging to the enduring bereft.