Man's Reach Exceeds His Grasp

The page, it sits as I sit--empty with no one to tell me stories for recount. Alone? No, I do not sit here alone, only in person but not in mind. I stare at a hand emerging from a hat, fingers curled into a horrified grasp. The hat, a magician's, lies on bloodied surface. The man inside the hat must be very small, or is it just the magician's lies that are very large? It's hard to say. I am horrified, like the hand, at the future and these moments of ill requitements that I so often seem to find and fear. A loss for words shows through and the tales of days seem trivial. What of philosophy, music, life... love? When these are spoken in true earnest then, maybe, this armor will break and I will fill my mouth with the warm smoke and my belly will become full once again. And yes, these must be spoke, for I am too aporetic in my learnings and lies. These magician's lies which so silently fall on my ears, stealing the blood from my veins so none may return to the heart. The hand, it's terrified fingers curved as if to hold something--something warm, bloodied, like the surface, but yet still beating. Is it my own? Something has indeed grabbed me, but is it vain, fleeting, hopeless drops?

My sentiments echo once more of the moon--repetition is the enemy in parallel, but a friend in feeling. I undulate as the nights pass, once in the clouds and the next in the dark below my bed, sweltering in the villainous weather. It stabs me in the daylight, in front of the world. But then so quickly I rise. And she spoke. It was not what you expected... no! Nor I, but the fires so quickly rose and I bit the petals. Yet what of philosophy, music, life and love? With fervor I wished to fill my mouth and my belly...

...but here I leave you, at the turn.