Lightning Rod
9 February 2009 12:35![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesTo see my way through dancers in the night, I hold aloft a fuse. A roadside flare that marks off the time I have left, acting as a warning to the nocturnal insects that balk at brightness. This is danger at the roadside marking off the paces to the pirated treasure waiting at the foot of the hill. I dream of candle wax and strangers. I dream of probing eyes and the poison that drips off of the word ‘appointment’.
In twelve weeks, my memory of the future goes cold. After that, it’s the leap of hang-gliding wizards taking shots at dragons in summer skies. After that, it’s necessary bereavement and an amputee race of forgotten hopes against wished-for wishes granted much too late up a hill of happy memories. After that, it’s a dark return to love. Heave against the alarm clock and push it off the cliff.
We will gather together in Calcutta. We will gather together in Rome. We will gather together around the largest volcanic fissure on the bottom of the ocean. We will experience life in the slums of our own hearts and we will experience history in the cobwebbed libraries of our own minds. We will take swimming lessons from bad teachers and forge our own stories across the ocean.
I warm my hands beside your fire, humming a tune to keep myself from remembering how good I feel around you. I have a drawer full of stamps at home, envelopes and paper, but they mystify me. I picture the Earth hurtling through time like a bowling ball and I wonder how it’s possible to not feel it. I think that this, right here, is the granted gift unraveling around us in a celebration of life.
If this is a recipe, then we need more salt. Tears, sweat, and blood. If this is a recipe, then we need more time. Centuries. If this is a recipe, then we need more sugar. Love, hugs, and the end of being hunted.
I’m a tent-pole and it’s raining. Help me be a lightning rod.
tags
In twelve weeks, my memory of the future goes cold. After that, it’s the leap of hang-gliding wizards taking shots at dragons in summer skies. After that, it’s necessary bereavement and an amputee race of forgotten hopes against wished-for wishes granted much too late up a hill of happy memories. After that, it’s a dark return to love. Heave against the alarm clock and push it off the cliff.
We will gather together in Calcutta. We will gather together in Rome. We will gather together around the largest volcanic fissure on the bottom of the ocean. We will experience life in the slums of our own hearts and we will experience history in the cobwebbed libraries of our own minds. We will take swimming lessons from bad teachers and forge our own stories across the ocean.
I warm my hands beside your fire, humming a tune to keep myself from remembering how good I feel around you. I have a drawer full of stamps at home, envelopes and paper, but they mystify me. I picture the Earth hurtling through time like a bowling ball and I wonder how it’s possible to not feel it. I think that this, right here, is the granted gift unraveling around us in a celebration of life.
If this is a recipe, then we need more salt. Tears, sweat, and blood. If this is a recipe, then we need more time. Centuries. If this is a recipe, then we need more sugar. Love, hugs, and the end of being hunted.
I’m a tent-pole and it’s raining. Help me be a lightning rod.
tags