all the signs
The night stands up to stretch its legs, while the day is balled up to the west. Wings retreat into dreams and silhouette. All the words curls up like smoke. Stare towards all that the day still owes, stare towards the rising tide of night, eyes sparkling like wet rocks. What more proof do they need? Why keep asking when all the signs are there?
The stones spin and the sparks fly. Objects in motion tending towards their given state. The blue mood pooled on the floor by my feet. The artificial light painting stories on the walls. Dust marches on, the endless procession of the rejected and the ground down. Dust marches on, a flicker of shine caught in the edge of my eye. The percentages played upon the forces in contention, the game plays on and on.
The night will bend, the day will break. The glow long ago worn off the skin of this romance, light hangs on the vine, light perches on the wire. If you hear me, it is an accident. If you hear me, it is a mistake. Some stranger slung over my shoulders, some story spirited up from scrap and habit. When you listen you will hear the moon on the mend. The cat on its beat and the dog in its lament will sing. Listen as that light fills the sky, and set your story free.
The night stands up to stretch its legs, while the day is balled up to the west. Wings retreat into dreams and silhouette. All the words curls up like smoke. Stare towards all that the day still owes, stare towards the rising tide of night, eyes sparkling like wet rocks. What more proof do they need? Why keep asking when all the signs are there?
The stones spin and the sparks fly. Objects in motion tending towards their given state. The blue mood pooled on the floor by my feet. The artificial light painting stories on the walls. Dust marches on, the endless procession of the rejected and the ground down. Dust marches on, a flicker of shine caught in the edge of my eye. The percentages played upon the forces in contention, the game plays on and on.
The night will bend, the day will break. The glow long ago worn off the skin of this romance, light hangs on the vine, light perches on the wire. If you hear me, it is an accident. If you hear me, it is a mistake. Some stranger slung over my shoulders, some story spirited up from scrap and habit. When you listen you will hear the moon on the mend. The cat on its beat and the dog in its lament will sing. Listen as that light fills the sky, and set your story free.