Breathless and on again
Beside me today
Around broken in two
til your eyes shed
It's still lonely out there. Only seven stolen satellites moored into you, calling back the trivialities to home. All the edges of an earthen-sloped scale slide further out toward the spun monastic isles counting back the lapses, the strained-empty conjunctions, touching each supple space and bending the dark in fantastic lenses just to bubble the doves-down gaslight of a far more distant planet thought to be you.
Everything without, perhaps. And all the language we've fought against, you wield in some delusion, so sure that by making the sun rise it has risen, and in making me human you will be forgiven for every cut and scrape and incidental bruise you've managed to scale against me armed with teeth and tongue and cheek. Only the whispers dance along the edges of my vision now, accompanying the ghosts in their promenade, little utterances still gasping at the edge of dream, craving the remembrance that long forsook their shadowed sills dropped from the calligraphy of their mention. Even then there is pain, a deep folding feeling the flux of imbalance, and all this cold rift cannot be fleeced with sleet or rain or salt air slimming along the red shored sandstone.
Not to say this is impossibility. Impossible is to be so sought and caught in these threaded piles, twined and twixt and twinned by a few spools of gathered flax over foundry fire. Impossible is to be and breath and spread silver fingers like swollen fires, breaming fast-fallen flares, around the grace that freedom has no longer been or broken. Like some childish chime, you can still feel faint from the gesture, a pitch dark swooning in scarlet fever, caffeine clarity bubbling in fervor, each and every time you lift your eyes, every time you saddle the trident a little lower, every time you swallow the sea. All the clamour contained.
Perhaps the wandering is a lust. And in this cradled courier you travel nowhere but in situ, diaphanous in your own splendid gravity of confusion and culpability. Quixotic comes to mind. Nevermind the troubling splendour curled cat-like amidst it all, or the playful nature of discontent always failing to subside between the costal places you've woven your amiability through, it's only a single moment built in complaint complete with repetition.
So, restlessness, we endeavor to design. We strive to create. An instance. An expanse. A mere addendum to the turbulence lasting only briefly, within the interim, lasting only for as long as eternity can be progressed and poured over, every word in the spell made mention, every prayer in the binding offered to ease, the gentle rapping of slipper-gone-scuff-shuffling, winding coarsely in angelic whimper to those fettered in dream. Sleep well. If only.