Fatigued of hand prints woven in the breeze
Corporeal winds tactfully stealing away decay are best left to their myopic ruination
There's no taste in the world beyond dull green hedges
Grown weary of waking, sequestered themselves in dreamy twilight, eating from otherworldly trees, evidenced by the mirth newly formed in their once glazed eyes
Mirth, though a flimsy facade, masking an ineffable cruelty malignantly circling their hearts, invoking fleeting fancy that they know all too well will lead down, down into dark, is mirth nonetheless
Perhaps the sobering drunkenness through which dust soliloquy echoes, sonnets rising like smoke through crown candy, unfurls heightened sensations
Through tactile impressions; how they approach their apex of disenchantment
Unfurling their broken spirits
Where the fay pixies dance under burning sky, their flaking flesh rises like smoke, rejoining a procession of white evening fire
Quivering with their feeding, needles against withered bark against the fire behind, marring the space between hazy, ill defined borders
The satyrs acting droll prophets of ashen groves, places where the soul becomes re-imagined
Under pinprick enteral, a serpent on every branch, danger and recompense united in a cohesive, all pervasive, cyclical motion
And it comes at all hours, and all is golden, all is fire, and all rests on the vestiges of the restless, countless, formless faces freed of their dull, gray stone
Stone of the satyr's legs
Spat between their golden teeth, laughter bubbling below the skin
Burgeoning machinery under earth green cloak, lightning bereft of destruction tunneling through the shadow
As they take their places, with sordid mirth still warm within
Drought of the ageless, apparent calamity reflecting in the pools of reason
And still the dead air laughs
Let them dance the dance of death
In it's pure expression, the tension it creates is seldom contemplated in isolation
I still love you
But no candles burn for you here
Thoughts of you grow thin, as I compose the faces
They're all waxing and waning, in tandem with the tides
Silver flecked through tiny wings
Catching effervescent light
No quality of life
If life is to be sought, it'll only be rent
As it once was, so it will be
Again, and again, and again and again
