Wednesday, November 26, 2014

A night in the den of lions.

[the sharp pain is over and it's dog days.
we cling to the heat of the night.]

I was sure one day that I'd quit dreaming. I'd grow out of thoughts of things intangible that words can't illustrate, but like any day among many days, 
I've been known to be wrong.

Some days, I pray for the cacophany of ravens and nightengales; the shrill and staccato chirruping of the mockingbird. 

Sometimes the silence sounds so much more soothing, and sometimes the silence is all we have. But who wishes the weight of words away?

I knew there would be a time when being pictorial was boring and I'd wear my heart on my sleeve and my head wouldn't hang like hallowed kings and hallway chandeliers.

I knew even then that I couldn't stand in the way of any of my proclivities.

And I watch the summer pushing and trudging onward in a blaze of heat to burn a doorway through into another Indian Summer. 

It's a long wait here to sit and watch the summer die, but the boredom is exquisite.

I was sure one day I'd be tempered by drink and noise and long nights under open lights and the walls couldn't contain me.

But my temperance now is me. It feels so personal, and I don't comprehend the gravity of anything.

Our intemperance now is permanent, it's personal, and we don't grasp the singularity of anything.

I was sure one day I'd grow out of my skin and into some one else, and we'd share weeks and words and pretend we had the things we need. 

Libertines in life and in love.

I knew there would be a time when my breath for lectures would grow short and my tolerance would be unconditional. 

And now if I had one, I'd raise a glass to toast providence, as though that's what really put it in my hand.

I was sure one day that all the me's I made would fade, that I'd lie and say I never dreamed of anything else.

I was so sure.

Last summer, I left like I got my way.

I was sure the roads were connected as I read the map aloud, punctuated by nerves (in shadows) and streetlights. 

It was a long and winding way to watch the treeline die from inside the truck.

Last summer, it was a dark grey sky. 

The thunderous chests of ancient ancestors pronounced long vowels and struck with blazing fingers, calling out to us to rejoin the intervention,
and we reached out with our closed eyes, half-awake in fear beneath the torrents of the summer thunderstorms.

When we got behind the wheel, we were so sure that we were bridging the distance instead of creating it.

We all fall victim to fallacies under one false auspice or another.

We traced all the roads from what was home out to the east coast, and then all the way west again.

Coast to coast.

Before we knew it, it was autumn love, we were grouped up and regrouping, but you can't see, love.

You can't tell what kind of life you've lived 'til today/

I can't see where anyone's roamed. 

At least, if I was never true to you, I stayed true to us. 

I can't see where anyone's touched.

At least, if I lied to you, I stayed true to us.

I can't see here.

I was sure the roads were connected. I was sure I could see you from afar.

Still, I'm lost and forgotten with our lies, love.

I can't see where anyone would say that we're not to blame.

I was so sure.

If I had one, I'd raise a glass to you love, as though you're what really put it in my hand.

I was sure one day that you'd be the one to make me fade, and I'd lie and say I never dreamed of anything else.

I was so sure.

Sure.