Creature of Dry Bone

I’m a creature of music in the minor notes. I’m a creature of shadow and dry bone. I clatter through the streets telling every leaf and every stone about the delicate moon rising, about the crickets hiding, about the sap collecting thickly at the base of all of our dreams. It’s here in the clavicle of darkness that we remake ourselves in the image of truth.

So let it be the face you recognize your soul in, let it be the person you hail on the darkest nights to answer your plea for refuge, for light. Let your truth be evident in your actions, your word, your everything.

I’m a creature of shorthand grief and operatic gestures thrown into the silent vacuum of space. I’m a creature of sudden snow and dirty slush. I cover the streets in metallic quiet but leave a residue of violins in my wake. You hear them but can’t remember their voice the second they stop. You go to sleep to the ghost of strings.

So let it be the music of the dreams guiding you forward through the turbid waters of disbelief into the quiet lake of your origin. This is where you know your own voice in the abyss, where there’s always a table set for you with your butchering knives and your sweat-damp napkins.

I’m a creature of desperate hours winding down into forgotten time. I’m a creature of my own imagination, perfect for this jagged screenplay cutting into every eddy and open wave with it’s devastating wit. I want out of the tide pool I’ve been driven into but I’m grounded here like the rock of Gibraltar, deep into the ocean floor where hell leaks up from the sand in poison gasses and we all pretend it’s air.

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