There is a last word and it will be revealed, somewhere out there, in the blurred burning of crows and the velvet of mercury cutting sand.
The word collects my mind and is unique like light shattering ice: a pillow stuffed with glass, a fire in the mud, a windowless window from a distant sail.
The word is light stolen from the moon; a gauzy rainbow that blinds the girls downtown who wait in the night only for me. A dream along the tracks, mirrored alone and cold in steel, listening for the fall of my flow and the flower banquet that lifts me up and sets me down.
I feel this word in every breath, in every line stitched across my face, the companion of days gone by and a balance of people far away.
Deep down where the cool rock lies, my hand can feel the spot devoid of air, the truth of an empty space, invisible eyes, joy, sorrow, and fate. The pattern is real even though nothing is there.
Yes, this word waits for me, unspoken and alone, and it is smiling, ready to lower the curtain over my eyes, happy to burn my hair as I try to run away, eager to rest before the dawn with everything that I know and love and feel.
This last word will come to me like silence in a room filled with people dressed as clowns, the drops in red below white lips that frown and not a tear will be shed that has not fallen a billion times before. What is the word?
Is it a scarred marlin in the sea?
No…no hook for a heart, only the enfolding abyss, and nothing more, and there is unfairness stamped upon my thoughts, since the word is mine and mine alone, but then I guess that’s the point, the whole point to this fucking thing that goes on and on like a low-budget dance marathon without a winner.