Now the crickets dance in secret patters, and the wet grass hum in silent sequences. We look for the nearest star in the sky as it relates to our favorite constellation. The planets float like paper boats. God presses his mouth on our face, he slowly inhales, than exhales, and we are quietly resurrected as steam fogging up windows. Lost in the atmosphere of god. We measure our worlds in numbers and rational intergers, but how do you measure fire, when it daces on a wick, teasing us midway on its casual foxtrot. The night is shaped like a heart, with sharp curves, and twisted alleys. We are seduced by the mystery of darkness, there is no truth when the lights and the stars are covered. We are only left to confront ourselves, project images to soothe our to frighten. A circus made from the ashes of tears, made by the echoes of desperation and glowing hope where elephants are hammering wooden beams to keep us inside the save haven of our dreams. |
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