It's not the thought that counts..
Blistered feet grip the black canvas is they drag years of resolve from off the calloused skin. Reaching and straining for the flame that never was, and never will be.
Still, there’s always optimism.
Isn’t that right, Chameleon?
Where have you gone?
Is it your turn to dance in those flames, to feel, to hear, to lust after the sting?
Embracing as the fire whips and flicks its tongue at your face, and gives counterfeit hopes of comfort as it burns and chars that imaginary soul. Imagine airy souls. Whose eyes preoccupy luggage full of memories from jaunts that were never.
But we know that’s not right. It’s not acceptable. Even magnets have less of an attraction as this. Still they smile and pull close together and in an instant their dry faces dash distances from each other and stuff themselves till rational rotates and makes sense again.
We’ll make sense again as we laugh through mirrors that break from the sharp percussion that stops silence in its tracks and roars through valleys. I’ve traveled those roads once. With the frail girl whose ash swollen lips soaked up what her eyes left behind. Resolute to carve out an affectionate content place, found only in the repulsion of discarded prospect.
And to think, the earth almost gave way four times before the crow scratched the sloths glass eye. To think that Cronus was more justified before, feasting on such infant desires. Yet, whose progeny bore the aegis.
Ego diligo vos. Ego usquequaque mos.
Standing for something you could never have the bravery to kneel for. Accuracy means nothing to the fever of the sun. She exerts in equinox. Equal thoughts. Scratched into trees painted hesitant by us.