Hallowed weaves
aka where the wane fingers what the eyes are sometimes tricked into believing


moments ,memories and pieces of ourselves
veined in the ghostly hollows of time we dig against the winds that circle in gravity's spin eons of sinning ourselves pressing high against where skin divides spirit and whispers dreams of a currency that no pocket could hold and hearts, boxed and dusty, give way as seeds might, as we once might have known what hides our flesh from where the bones ride words from the geometry of each silent me, we, stored thoughts paused bought moored to the wind again sentried mirrored friend bent reflected axis leaned went taxes fallowed rent weaned lent to ripe and sent in turns, in seasons that salt us all and bring what calls, what each of our voices birth in tall shadows, the light of our conscious desires braiding beauty's fractions into the infinitessimal, into where we find each song the wind has already heard us sing, where the wind has already heard the tintinnabulation of our souls reaching in to where we begin, into all the twisted pirouetted looks silouetted and hooked to the ashes shepherding the forms that fall into roots and trees bared in waves spiny spindly path crashing past November, bedding down to remember that this is the way we always came to feel how mad we can be...