whenever it comes around

The light leaves quick on the deck of the great distraction, all at once the sun on the run and the moon holding court as it rises. A glimmer of albedo bright behind the front yard tree, a glimpse at the mercy of limb and mist. The satellite gathering gaze and rapture, stirring the oceans and the earth, pinning the wings of every angel to behold. Another altar to the becoming, light ripe with the air of imminence, the unseen schemings below the on high thick in our acclamations. The sense of that sizzle, the drag of the static dancing lightning crackling from your touch, this arrival of our once and future creators buzzing from our brains. Always something that wants to sell you another set of chains.

Indoors it goes a little different, the gift of Prometheus, the passcode of the Morning Star. The doorknob and carpet combo calling forth that semblance of the cry it’s alive. Reminders of the relative, ink of the aspirants, the glitter glued to the ceiling. The moon adjusts its grip, the heart held fast in reckless divinity, the mind in thrall to the magic that it makes. The moment is a mortal thing, leaving the claws in the back of the next instant to pass, the path of ten million fuses in the grand burn. We carry all the weight of each collapse up to the next breath taking. All these tabs left open, the hubris built in, this seeing every which way at once. The wait, the want, the next one done. 

This is me, working on the engine. This is me with the parts all over the floor. The myth behind my mind watching the way the sausage is made, these dreams that answer every demand, the places where the symbols touch the meat. This sloughed and sallow construct reworking all the wounds, stars from the fire, tattered flags for the fall. You could solve it through devotion, an aspect known through the ritual of relentless intent. You could find it in rune stone, star, or card. It isn’t a ghost to go to, but the echo down below. It isn’t a goddess in the sky, but the riot she makes of your skin. This could be the prelude, it could be the marginalia. Whenever it comes around, I got there first. The spell cast clean through the roof spilling down the page.