Articulation is the salvation of the ostracized.
The beginnings of light over the dawn cuts the preceding night like a wicked blade, vanquishing the cold from it’s unparalleled reign in shadow. If I were to stand there, empty from sleep, the light will cast itself into neat shapes for a moment etching the confinements of my being.
I’ll twist below the sheets. Pain and discomfort winding it’s way up my spine and my blood will be tired from spectacle. All from the day before.
I can see the lines everywhere, as uninvited and intoxicating as noise and music. I can shatter the obscure storm with uneasy pulses of 21st century fun. I can be sick from work, undone by chemicals, and I will find the truth through fashion, but I am here to tell you how much I wish I didn’t have to lie.
Here are the fireworks of ink and blasphemy so I can face the kind of animal I am. Books and lights, dreams and things this is what it means to be lost, but so high that I can’t see the sky when I know the dawn is coming. I know that my innocence will not last. So let me tell you, ghost of the world, boldness may take me when the shadow leaves and I may arrive.
