certain ways
towards the sky
after winters long exhale
There’s a watchful sky
just under the layers of wiring in my mind.
You’re always there,
where i tend my memory of you
like a fire
that I will never let burn out.
trailing off
passages
moments left
for miles around
muddy dirt road
wandering
I despise
that unnatural empty space
around my finger tips
when you let go of my hand
when sparks fade
The vikings said that eagles show their claws, even when they are dying.
There are places still.
There are places still where the past doesn’t matter.
There are places still unaffected by those who came before. Their survival imparts no help for your own, where the father is no more informed than the son.
There are places which require knowing one’s self as if we were each simply scraping out an existence under the infinite sky rather than hiding pieces of ourselves in different pockets of place, time, and memories cataloged in metropolises of past tense verbs.
