I trample down that brambled path, I am ridden out on rails, faith and feathers, words and tar. My gait is just an empty scuffle, the kata of worn joints and sore feet. I wind along the long stubborn stair well, I clamber up and down. I find my way amid the thorns and briar, the idle knots that living gives again and again. The joke is always that the fool is never in on it. The joke is always that the fool couldn't care less. The cold air and thin light, the path is waiting for the right feet to find. Even shadows can learn to forget.
The ice finds the insides of your fingers, brittle crystals oblivious to the whispering of nerve and vein. Steam abounds from your every breath, these graven exhalations spilling visible from your tongue and lips. The cacophony of living the syncopation of motion and desire you strike all the hard notes at once, your spells the very breadth of certainty. A hank of hair, a drop of blood, the names of successive listless spirits. A song a poem a pride of aimless lions. The heart always wanting, the words simply strings to fret and pluck.
So I stalk and tumble, I grumble at the ancients and all their shiftless heirs. I trod through the darkness, half caution and half bluff, trailing smoke and steam. I watch my step and let the stars all fend for themselves. I speak your name where only the trees can see me. I speak your name for only bird and beast to hear. The magic isn't in the act but in your name. I speak aloud this want, this ache that you inspire, and you hear my incantation. Through this darkened distance, through this frozen night, I stalk along the boundless absence spilling wishes. From the empty all or nothing, I call upon you now.
