It is the essence of this asking that our reasons should be left out. These words that topple from our tongues exhaust already before they meet their meanings. There is a sense of want, some ached for purpose, some hard and hollow place in the heart. The brittle touch of the impending winter only known by bone and star. Idle light amid the ripples. This emptiness that knows no end.
I write the line though my vision's failing. I write it down though the darkness calls. The single bulb burning upon the dusty shelving. Books abandoned like all the friends who have moved passed reach, the weight of my own wonder buckling each wish. The world is only marvel and sad reminder. Abundant beauty and my own inadequacy all the bounty that I know. Ache and the pitch and yaw of this failing flight.
There are no relics left to scavenge. There is no soul left to barter for another change. The blood tells all in red and hungry whispers. Gods and ghosts and all manner of monsters to hunt and fear. The will another dull transmission, culture a costume put on a dog. No-one there and still we raise our voices. No-one there as we huddle in the dust. Another poem to phrase my adamant strangeness. The earth below, the sky above, all joy and woe the same.
