manadrake

As the buildings went up, rose like fingers into the sky, reaching for God, for sovereignty, for forever, it has been hard not to become bitter. The idea that, if one were to grow - to build bone and skin, steel and stone - one could reach into the aether and pull out a piece of heaven, right here, right now. Maybe there are places you don't belong. You can find them laced in between those threads of thought, the everyday string of moments, held close like rosary beads - tiny prayers to immortality that last for but moments; drops of water upon the heated skin destined to sunder. Between the "I need to buy eggs, and biscuits" and "God ho

From that city of stars and shadow, the moonlight came softly, quiet, to stall this place into alabaster, ivory, pewter, and stone - In the way one dreams of things, simple, quiet strands of warm nights lacing ribbons across the eyes, strands of promise that this peace could tie you together, pretty and muted, solemn and still. And somewhere there were wolves, howling out curses and accusation drawing lines of chill sound to curve across the spine, up shoulders, and into the deep recess of the heart. Most of it was nothing, just a dream of warmth and subtle cool light, that perhaps all's not as harsh as it seems. But more likely there'

the waves that fell upon the Chesapeake like so many soldiers marching through midnight to bed themselves down, and sweet Mint Julip caressing your tongue warm like flushed lovers insistent and brave. Oh, the things you've seen and the people you've met tying you up in their strands of song: the balalaika strings on the banks of the Moskva, the penny-whistle trill from the Isle of Mann. Oh, the things you've seen, that give you pause and stretch your mind to places afar places greener than here, hands warmer than these. Oh, the things you've seen, never enough, may they guide you gently into that day that finds all children transformed

Perhaps the echoes of the stars, that light that falls and touches your nose, perhaps this is enough to ransom your heart in that, when you sing those songs, you sing blindly, telling stories of a faint light that honestly came to you and touched skin in a way that reminded you of all the love, all the tiny strands of energy between the things that shine faintly in darkness because if there is more, it must come from something beyond all the dirt tracing lines upon our cheeks.

Silence was the sound of the snow, flake after flake hurtling into the ground to lie gathered up, beautiful and cold. And I watched until the sun sank into the sand knowing full well what it meant, and unable to change the course of things. Until darkness clutched close, limiting sight to nothing but silence I waited. And then there was just the cold, clawing through fabric into skin. I need to sleep, the way that snowflakes sleep. I need to gather the warmth into me until I am nothing. But I am no Icarus, seeking to harness the sun, to own it, clutch it close to corrupted heart and let tendrils of flame burn glyphs into skin. I am no Ica

A name on lips, over and over "Sweet Melissa" he'd tell me waltzing on about cascades and candle-light the dreams that settle upon the tongue and couch themselves in scents. There were so many words in boxes - all the things he wanted, she wanted how they'd grow together twined like two old trees grown into shared bark shared skin. Have you seen those lighthouses? The great grey shards of stone defiantly thrusting into the soil and earth recalling that legend of Excalibur frozen upright through the years with no solace save shadow, and nightfall - those moments when duty is the thin line the razor edge of existence, and then there is chaos

In your letter you wrote of snowflakes; something about the state of matter and covalent bonds. "Water is beautiful", you said all the things it can be, how it adds itself up out of thin air and bonds itself into necessity. Smoke and wine were my smells wrapped into my cells, bonded and branding their mark in flesh; A warm shield against winter. Maybe I don't understand beauty. I can feel the wind tear strips of flesh cold through layers of clothing, and tiny drops of frozen water, leeching heat in alien vampirism, that I burned cells to produce. In your letter you wrote of many things in tiny words, and precise form. It smelled of paper

Quiet places begin to assemble themselves they begin to meld and blur the lines, those places we learn to set ourselves apart, and protect crouched and hidden from view. "You've not built your walls strong enough" Those are the words on the wind, that stretches out and rakes concerned fingertips across strand after strand - all the tiny hairs caught up in goose-flesh, reaching up, begging for the electricity of touch: an exchange of energy that leaves skin forever changed - energy impossible to be sorted out, merged together and assimilated. There is no answer from me, there isn't one I know. But I will build, all the same. There will soo

 There are reasons you are here - hundreds of them, thousands even. I stitched them into you, stitch after stitch, a million times over. There are reasons you are here, I hope you understand that. There will be flame. There will be pain. And you will suffer it, because you have to. You will stand and burn the way a forest burns - a little at first, a spark, a twig...and then growing and growing until consumption becomes the entire world, all that there is, until there is nothing but fire and smoke - ashes and dust. This is what life is, it seems. This is why they come for you. Though, you do not yet see them, you will. I can see them - out

Lightning on the horizon, and it does things to me - nobody believes me, but I'm not sure that matters. There are moments that transcend normalcy, and with a flash of electricity, heated air, scortched earth there is a hero born, and martyred and forgotten. but I'm not sure that matters. You see, heroes are inevitable. Villains are constant. And who knows if it is because they are choosing, or because they are chosen. They are meaningful, because they have to be you see, meaning is inevitable. I've seen beautiful strippers connect with people, take them for everything make them dream of forever, or perhaps the clarity free from dreams fr