relic

Sword to stone, the form is rife with fire. The worn down bone, the torn up flesh, the burn about the being as the world runs out. There is the consideration of the materials and the hanging of the frame, the body billowing in the winds as it collapses brick by brick. The days add up and the deficits carry. Pain the pin that holds the remainder to the map, grief and ghosts and a quiver full of I love yous. Pain the shadow cast by the light inside, arms folded around this fragile ache.

The words settle like dust, they drip and drizzle like water, they bless and they burn. We loose them like splendid birds to mark the moment against the sky, celebration all feathers and lift. Words we long for and words that hunt us dead. Would that there were pages to contain them, would that there were tongues to wag away. Discard the grail, dump the chalice, the quest is in the telling. Breath by breath these steps are swept, ascending the holy held close in your heart.

The song disappears where the stylus would go, another song starts where the needle would be, the spinning somewhere in the algorithm. The music spooking through the room, the music beckoning to our lost and dead. The wrestle in the paper bag rustle of these thickened breaths as the music plays and plays. This object an affectation owed to phantoms and lapsed lovers, the apostasy of the declaration as the flesh falls away. A power awaiting intention, the initiation of mind and hand. That radiance inside your mind, the longing that reaches back towards your grasp.