Whatwhatwhat is there to say when the mp is out of reach, and the mics are off? While the instrumental plays over in the car stereo speakers that are hooked into your ears drums, bangin like Africa around the fire. The villagers look on as you pause in hesitation. Wars coming, and you missed out on your training. Now what’s left is the blood from raining memories desolved into lonliness. Rising down, finding the roots and following them to the center of the earth. And back. Skylines transform into grassy parking lots where trees loom over a ground that has no where to go. And I have nowhere to flow, so I’ll evaporate into the clouds. River dancing is for the stage, and I’m in the audience still. The curtain is curdled with the singe of soy, unsettled and sticking to my stomach. Broomstick dreams, and bed knobs turn for her. She’s welcom where I sleep, and where death sneaks in. The lesson plan is jaded, and fear is all but faded.
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