Like oil on river water. Strike a match, o-light-the-match, friend. Your eyes twinkle and I am imprisoned in the blind-retinal fire reflecting across my landscape. Do you see the patterns? They are the patterns we have seen all along. They are the patterns we see in the darkest hour. Pumpkin time, and we carve the faces we will wear. So open your mouth and shriek with me. The forest burns but that is the cost of the soft glow's comfort. For yes, we fear the darkest hour. We prefer to walk on sunlight, not water. Our messiah is wax melting. Hallow's Eve is our rapture. And our shadows count the hours till we must leave the shore, gliding like oil on river water.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
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