weary time-traveller
sun sets on the summer side and rises to a breath’s gasp, angel hair bound in fog. the air becomes smattered with cold slips from a slug’s tongue, slick on the ground and staining the atmosphere. a scent of earth and dirt pervades; nostrils gently flare at the incumbent aroma, scintillating scorn and mistrust.
sleep hits with the exhaustion of a skidding train. brakes applied, slipping, unable to grasp a hold on this, on that, and on the other. everything should be halting but falters, slips and slides under mountainous avalanches. weeks spent in this giddy state speed past the passengers and bystanders until one becomes the other. the destination and the startpoint become one and the same, until all parity and clarity become lost in a haze of destination, anticipation and the sick feeling of knowing you are going somewhere beyond the edge.
it would be easy to find this place, if jumbled names pulled their letters apart for a second and let us see their namesigns with unobfuscated vision. but the dull knell of hush falls once more and withdraws the curl of fingers from form. parting slightly to cut in a scissorlike motion between sleeve and cuff, of cottons, pastels, soft fabrics and the bubblegum light which only belongs to sweet coincidence.
instead of stabling, this constant travel desires to snuff the wick of candlelit warmth. trudging through street, snicket and ginnel, carrying ballast never wearily discarded, steps are taken. it is easier to move than to stay in the shadow of one step; to wake another morn under the light of an evening which glanced away cannot be forgiven.
shift time with me.
