How handsome it was when the lights were turned down low. The spotlight aimed at the feet, rather than the brain. The edge of the serpent colored carpet was like an ocean on a string. There was caution in the air, fighting the fatal foe of reason. A season like no other, stuck in its dreams, leaves solid in limbo, ears waiting for words never said.
Hard as it is to be trapped in a box, a person remains there.
One with a fickle heart that casts nets from below. Yet more. One with this empty hope of something hidden beyond the rope...one sighing because he doesn't feel like dying...one from the dark past that doesn't make a sound...back further they are many.
Across the cool chrome of that prison lies that sullen feast that creeps in on spider's legs to arrest you. More of your dreams come to detest you. Most of your hopes turn up to molest you.
Sitting on the ground...the mud feels like Heaven and the lure of worms, the stars. No one wonders what you are. There is no ceiling, only the quiet blue of afterthought. Calling to you. Carving those letters into the sand with a forked stick of birch, trying to swallow letters down. It couldn't be more done than this.
Counting money as the snakes come around, living on deaf ears. The shortest straw is most fatal. It feeds the chain reaction like a circuit, like a path of quicksilver to the feet of someone so beautiful it pains you not to touch him. In that light, the red and blue only add to his glory. His sickness. His pain. Swimming about his head like roses made of locusts.
Soon, my arms like endless wires will obey and embrace, only to find the blankets cool in the morning. Yes, he asked. I was helpless to say no, so I came to him in silence not spilling out the memories from my head into his neck.
The skin felt like mine. You could say I was home.