[ i must not talk out of turn
i must not talk out of turn.
we know, as we should, that
things could be much, much worse.
and that the best is yet to come.
we're all chasing something.
there's no rush. ]
through the cruelty of the desert heat,
she's dressed to keep on,
she's dressed to keep up,
just to keep going.
and she hums a short tune to the blistering
fever of the walk she's on.
she hums to you,
to be caved
from your soft touch.
but times change as all times do,
she left all her signs unsigned,
better to move forward and leave all her
in the desert,
toward the stars;
stars better left to shine
in their own corner of the sky.
she awoke this morning to her heart,
beating itself dry,
and the caustic cough from
her parched set of lungs,
half empty, arid like
the floor of the sandy wastelands
and the day changes, as all days do,
as the night excises the fire from the sky,
to exorcise these notions from her heart
and her labored breath,
and while she sleeps beneath of bloom of cacti,
she misses the rise of a king,
she misses the fall,
she misses a stellar evolution -
a war of gas and light, but
kings wouldnt be kings without arms
and wouldn't have queens without hearts,
the one she carries forward like a torch,
on this march,
she's always quick to count the stars,
the way she'll count the times that you've done right.
on any given night,
she's of service to a silence she can't name,
drowning in vanity and star-rises, blankets
of velvet night and speckles of distant light,
it feels like it should snow, and this
she walks .
she waits to be of service again, to fill
her lungs up with the icy air near you,
it feels like it should snow, and she
waits to be of service again,
to fill her heart with this warm blood of yours,
to fill up her nights,
instead of this walk