shout stoutly at the volume of slow motion into my somber seashell ears

in the fleeting forest of your glance, my skin gives birth to a thousand buzzing bees. i have seen men dig into the earth and take residence of the sky. i have seen the hacking and the hunger; the quiet crowing of cities at twilight. the life will be spilled from us yet. we know this. it is writ. and in all we do, there is a question. a sailing ship. a handful of bone. drunken wizardry. the answers are why we continue. and yea, though i am lost at sea most moments, when i am laying in the tall grass, as the light declines, watching the pink hills curl themselves about my shoulders, while the bats beat blindly through the ether, and the crickets make music of their bodies with the meandering melancholic notes breaking their own hearts, in those last hours, at least, there is some comfort.