Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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He didn’t arrive in the dark, but he brought shadow with him. It was in the history of his anatomy, the errant way his blood coated his brain with the most brazen of intentions. To fuck. To pleasure. To eat. To self-protect. To lord over a kingdom of his design without compromise. To fight and claim and sing and encourage the cancer of his lineage in its slow advance into the bone of his race. And now here, at the beginning of a new world – or at the end of an old one – he sighed, frozen breath dissipating into the threat of day. He wanted to know where the next step would lead him, and felt apprehension with every turn. Soon he settled on North, not because it was practical, but because his heart was a compass and knew only one direction to be true. It told him where there might be love, so he stepped carefully on the wet shoreline and imagined the dampness of her desire leading him. Somewhere ahead she was sprawled out in the light, and she would cradle him, tearing away his shadows and warm him from within. Their union would be sea and sky, and he’d thread her hair between his fingers in a tidal pull, their quickening breath the clouds’ thunder and crash of waves, the tightness and urgency of their lust the answered longing of land. And she would be his home, accepting his seed greedily and he protecting her with his every action. For his pleading and wander would end and his eternal night would yeild to perfect dawn; her eyes alight and his reflecting her stunning worth appreciated and earned in full. In his turn from the black, she’d know her own heart to be invaluable, just as she’d always known, but was never told. Yet that was a way off still, so he walked quietly with the sun to his right and begged for the wind’s mercy. “Please don’t cut me,” he thought. “And if you do, carry her scent with your every lash.” (at Steps North)

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