I wish I could tear open your secrets like envelopes, read your thoughts like letters written to no-one but yourself. Dig up the bones you’ve buried and study the rates of decay. Track a light into the hidden, tucked-away alcoves of your past and your present mind. Stare like massive, louvre style paintings at the memories of your life as you saw it slip by.
I can’t. I never will.
I have to bow out and tap out and admit, this once, defeat.
Again and again.
But the owls never stop hunting despite a famine in the land. They try and try and try, fighting against hunger until they die. They fly and fly through the night sky until there is no more prey to find. Until their bellies are full, their search will not be satisfied.
If never, then never.
An endless flight gliding on wings that beat and churn the air.
A single cry, high and sharp, lets you know the kill is coming soon.
When, I wonder, is the last time you’ve looked up?
The moon rose a sliver, but in the glint of the coming sun, the whole sphere was visible. Dark grey against a black-blue sky. Paper clouds unrolled between the mountains and the valley here. A swatch of white in all that vacuum black to relfect our yellow-orange unnecessary gaslight.
I was awake at two, three, five before the dawn.
Awake, beceuase I could not sleep. Awake seeking knowledge and truth like food and water around a kitchen of deceit. I was starved and parched without. I’d only last a little while. Stumbling over odds and ends that don’t amount to much but trash and tripe in my way. I tried to climb over, but I was deterred from even a sip of water, a crumb.
I went back to bed to wait until my bones brittle and my stomach distends and my skin turns to dust and blows away.
Then — in the sunrise tomorow — you can bury me with your secrets, and we’ll all be safe.
Chances are high, right?