I've lost you, old friend. These stories I write; I put periods on penultimates; abandon treasures in attics; things I love. How easy to blur--to get comfy. This brain needs rough edges, slicing blames. Cold winter stars keep this machine active, heaping more coal on the fires to keep warm. My hands are cold; I'm forgetting to keep warm; to keep.
I saw a shooting star starring at orion warrior in clouds and sand; but sand it isn't; asterisms are gathered pebbles I use peruse lose in lactic glass. Flotsam; seashells; that's what meteors are; they are. You can't dream 'em, trust 'em in pixel black home; only see. A glimpse; turn up; look up; so many stars. I saw lady luck in constellations conjuring, memories music mournings--mourn. I mourn the things I did not want; I seek asterisms's deep; warrior constellation is a garnet, others connected by. What? I can't see the depth of heaven. You try to peel your gold make-believes; to see behind, when really, your ambition has made you a beggar. Beggar wants what cannot give happiness, truth. There is nothing on the other side; there is nothing behind the fabric of heaven; you fail to fathom; attributes and properties of the world unseen, in depth. Let yourself. Give. Ugh, I can't see! Universe is unseeable; reconciliation is heart's quest. Eternity into everyday.
I wonder
in.
I love
to.    
Rough edges. To feel alive is an obsession with death; a goodly death is rare. Life is lived when death and reckoning are done, and God gives--love to me. Rainwater; petrichor; Son's crimson stain; my pages sticky with grace. Grace, gosh, grace; I don't deserve to die a goodly life. I deserve fate of dark shooting stars; you can't dream 'em, trust 'em; only not see. Meteors are mirrors; I see myself; I don't. See. Myself.

14/12/2015