To will the rain...
Morning, again. This time earlier, my wakefulness and guilty conscience pressing higher into the hours of darkness, just before the blue sun rises to subvert the silver moon and bless the world with warmer light. Not that I prefer the day to the evening, but necessity comes reeping all my willfulness to remain dreaming aside my lover.
The word of the day is Alacrity, because the tiger said it last night in retrospect to something else he'd said. It means either cheerful willingness or speed (See also celerity).
I need a venue for the woman, Vale, for I realize sometimes that she's a lot more a shadow of myself than I originally concieved. She's the part of me I'll allow to shatter in the face of an invisible wound, and the part that will gather between my wings in the tight knot of muscle there, bunching about my spine. She'll shine through the hard lines of ink which will imbue the skin there, black patterns of clock and compass. I'll still travel to her realm in dreams in search of her, gone though the wolf may be. She's fade, and will carry his memory forever if, indeed, I find that I must mourn him. I refuse to believe immediately... not with the immediacy with which I dreamed of speaking to him.
I must soon again steal away and seek solace in tiger-shining eyes and a cup of coffee. We come and go by cover of darkness, which shant wane now that winter is stalking the night on feet of frost and heavenly clarity. Makes life... easy, if chilled.
~Which makes me pale... light thickens, and the crow makes flight toward the rooky wood. All things good of day begin to droop and drowse, and night's black minions to their evil preys do rouse.~ -Macbeth.
The word of the day is Alacrity, because the tiger said it last night in retrospect to something else he'd said. It means either cheerful willingness or speed (See also celerity).
I need a venue for the woman, Vale, for I realize sometimes that she's a lot more a shadow of myself than I originally concieved. She's the part of me I'll allow to shatter in the face of an invisible wound, and the part that will gather between my wings in the tight knot of muscle there, bunching about my spine. She'll shine through the hard lines of ink which will imbue the skin there, black patterns of clock and compass. I'll still travel to her realm in dreams in search of her, gone though the wolf may be. She's fade, and will carry his memory forever if, indeed, I find that I must mourn him. I refuse to believe immediately... not with the immediacy with which I dreamed of speaking to him.
I must soon again steal away and seek solace in tiger-shining eyes and a cup of coffee. We come and go by cover of darkness, which shant wane now that winter is stalking the night on feet of frost and heavenly clarity. Makes life... easy, if chilled.
~Which makes me pale... light thickens, and the crow makes flight toward the rooky wood. All things good of day begin to droop and drowse, and night's black minions to their evil preys do rouse.~ -Macbeth.