(no subject)
What Are We Going To Do About This?
Ages in the past
we'd be headed right for that melty buttered edge
as the sun stands
and where the world falls.
This ship is so full of wind
and so our breathes draw
the short comings as we
move
move
move
and,
you see,
the waves are really the carriers of coffins,
so we dont see
which way the ship is
taking us.
But yes,
we will be there eventually,
and sooner we will feel it's course nails
poking holes in through it all
when eventually
becomes sooner,
and sooner becomes one of those thoughts,
one of those little bugs
caught in the web
against the glowing dead sky
still trying this whole
living
thing
even as vision whites
of the deadliest foreboding silk
known to man and woman alike,
or not so much.
But now
let us speak not of it,
nothing,
the seaward air is wafting most pleasantly,
so open,
under and above and inbetween
the pink sky.
And we will sail
into the place where there is no sky or sea,
the fire,
let it take us gently at first,
my dear.
And then my dear,
quickly,
so not to agitate that spider
sitting there,
right over there,
like it always does,
always has,
and always will.
Just for that night,
as we stand deep in the stifled wind,
and as we tighten the cables
and then finally take them off
to blanket ourselves,
just then my dear
can the spider go hungry.