We haunt the dark with strange permissions —
adding names to the book of debt.
And we would not erase these stories
that expand a man to something more
than a hard, cold ring.

It is hard to fathom:
Here is a world that does not know
these secrets of our deviance —
in dream
or in truth.

And which of you fallen angels
walks among us,
whispering ‘all shall be well.’
Some day will come an end to this wanting,
and what then?

It is a strange alchemy
that transforms the breaking day-to-day
to word and music.
Is it enough?
Enough to live on?

He’s steered us down
this dark road.
Unfamiliar lips and eyes
press against us on all sides.
The map is a foreign tongue.

And so we seek
the simplest translation —
always, still,
searching for the right direction
to lead us into sunlight.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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