some words just have to, left with little choice,
like glowing maps set somewhere along some far away burnt horizon,
post the little-red-knee-tops you want to bring them,
the surface seething and breathing, beckoning your language to step suddenly and completely,
to come help empty the forever cornered compass of its implied divine meaning-
"who put me here?", it wonders across the stuck land;
"dig me up!", it cries;
"BREATH ME OUT!"
a glow reflects off the soft broken glass sky sending snakes through your spine,
the naked and still night speaking in shallow past-tense, some sort of wicked reverse to lead you, or melt you, or remind you the single simple and undeniable truth that the only secret
any human ever keeps
is their own mortality.
clothed in the blackboard backs of your sleepless eyelids
even half-truths feel fact, indistinguishable in the dark, threatening you with what you need to move on,
but are you not so safe in your middle place?
when the sun finally wakes and breaks your flesh back open,
a new sense of direction itching in your pores,
you tip-toe forward and leave your eyes closed only to prove to yourself it's not your eyes that know the hell between your ears
can't tell either but instead something that can hardly be thought or felt let alone held or made home points ever so slightly as you make your way painting nostalgias in your wake.
it isn't until you are almost too far entirely that the glowing map, a rusty italic figment of some concept you once had or held briefly between dreams snickers wildly,
the compass buried alive somewhere within your blood, breathing You out, carefully
whispering for you to take your steps back
so that you may take your steps tiredly,