Spirits

We are lucid, we are lightning, consuming the plains, flashing, flashing, and fires abound. We watch your ruby-red fingers blister, and chuckle sympathetically.

We spring from the loaded skies, from the densest clouds, waterlogged. Every so often a member joins our ranks. We watch as the seeds multiply, garbed in dirty animal skins, and romanticize our isolation.

We feel ourselves racing, knuckles electrical, white with speed. We feel endless, provocative, a part of the ubiquitous frontier that defies mortality but defines death. We stand out in the crowd, off-kilter and unsteady, shattering like stained-glass windows, to be pieced together again by the king's concubines while he looks on, burning, burning.

Growing calmer now, the raging waters left behind. The current ebbs, and our standing pools house amphibious lifeforms, while the small percentage longs for risk, for animism, for something to stuff into the drunken holes we've blown through our brains, while our wrinkled faces wane.

Place your ear to the shell and listen to our gushing senses, our spatial cries that bemoan moonless nights and forgotten graveyards. Do you hear the drifting distance? The forgotten sacrifice? The perilous future?

Listen to the sage's whisper that floats between sleep and wakefulness, whose raspiness jolts us upright, who calls for restitution, who reminds us of what might have been.