At any given moment
Two paths lay ahead.
Would that I could travel both,
and from there, all.
But my heart aches
And my mind swims
with all the branching, fractal possibilities
from there.

Give yourself the gift
of a day alone -
a day of your own making -
of singing madly,
scribbling passionately,
eating well,
listening deeply to your own desires,
and sitting with your own folly.
Give yourself this,
and you will never feel loneliness
as an insurmountable ache
again.

For a moment
the world is mist and stillness,
but then you hear it.
A distant howl pierces the fog,
accompanied by the clattering
and thundering
of the unseen beast:
metal wheels on metal rails.
And suddenly, the iron dragon appears.
Steam rises from its nostril
and it bellows a warning
that echoes from the mountainsides.
It's charged frame
cuts through to this plane,
snaking its way through canyons
and impossible passes
for just a moment
before passing back through the veil
to the realm of the mystical
from whence it tore.

I can stretch my sanity,
I can bare my soul,
I can wear it on my sleeve,
on my wrist,
in my pulse,
I can bear the vanity,
I can stretch my sanity...

I can stretch my time,
I can do it all,
I can stay up with my pen,
'til my eyes
start to fall,
I can work the overtime,
I can stretch my time...

I can stretch my limits,
I can be so chill,
I can hold myself
down and try
to be still,
I can breathe it in,
I can stretch my limits...

For Now.

The fresh memories of
the impossibility of your words,
the incandescence of your eyes,
and the intoxication of your lips
comes in flashes,
running down my prickling neck,
through my tingling core,
and to my trembling toes.
They are small bolts of lightning
striking the same place,
over and over and over -
infinitely unlikely,
shocking, shaking, and grounding,
all at once.

I need air,
I need earth,
I need water,
For each breath is shallow,
And my bra is too tight,
And on sudden occassions
My chest twangs
As a lumberjack sinks an axe into me
Taking me down for my
Precious Heartwood.

It is Scorpio season
in every possible sense,
For there is no safe, solid,
middle ground to stand upon
That hasn't been wet-soaked
with its flood and blood,
That transforms the gentle earth
to obfuscating mud.

But then, perhaps, it is actually clay,
taking shape under a vision in silver,
For the full moon in Taurus also glides
across these charged, ******, Scorpio skies.