The light pools in intimate impacts, hums along with the frequency of the flesh, engaging the clock and the geometry. The unsettled stimulations that even out given enough space and time, the slow stray from the way of nought as the trifles and trappings endure. The candlelight after you light the candle, the attention you offered to the unyielding gaze, the burning always a part of you. The flame still stirs somewhere in between soul and shadow, even though your fire has long since moved on. The flesh is always ready to return you to the dream. The flesh is always ready, spirit willing, to fold into the dust. Living in the abandoned labyrinth, trying to make the Minotaur last.
The song glides below the smoke that lingers in the room, beside the burn wandering the sky outside, within the rising tide of night. Her voice along the smolder, a lilt within the melt, the note by the throat. Her voice a savvy animus, the step along the slide into dreaming, the motive for calling down the moon. The feet in the fire, the husk of earth, the head the sea, the heart filled with wings. The stress upon the wrong strings, the stricture of mistaking chaos and freedom, the altar always awaiting its concessions. The music walks through the walls, it slithers through the floor. Living in the echoes, trying to catch up to the song.
The water washes over the tongue, cools a little sore off the throat. A sip then a swallow, a parch quenched, then a remembrance of salt licked from the lips. The gathered sets of senses and focus of the instrument, the poem and the animal mingling in the mud, the ghost in the bones seeding each tedium. Meat and teeth and gravity, from iffy soup to nutty certainties, the entity pounds out the scales. The mistake the ego makes in weighing the monstrosity, the utility yet to spend ahead. All the prayers and rituals in floor hard and bruise tender, the unseen star, the false apostasy. The world burning all around as we manifest.