Every horizon is 97 percent fog.
silent and tired, lit far out there, cutting through a menacing message from the gods.
indestructible having beaten the odds and dominated violent wills.
I looked out the window towards the graveyard and half of my vision was obscured by a large sheet of snow curling under the eaves facing me, through it's thinnest edges it was ice blue. ragged like the upper maw of some wild thing.
I couldn't hear it as if outside under it, but somehow the imagery was something sort of immaculate in nature, so when I bore witness to it bearing down on me, entrenched in my limited sensory war zone, it's effect on me was.... poetic. And I hate to use that word. It makes you think you have a grip on my perversions when I use basics.
Resounded like a sheet of icy snow, curling and three feet thick sliding easily off of your lips with a recorder lying prone under your tongue, received directly in my head, catching every atom racing over your chin with chapters of worlds beating alongside it in seconds ... a translucent river of accomplice to stroke with.... pressing up against the pane reconciling it''s differences with dirt.
slipping further down, with a roar of friction, and landing, haunted and resolute below the sill, illuminated by my encased shadow.
on the side of the wall where no one walks the talk.