Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Your fury scrorches chilled ground, certain yet cautious, daylight assertion at the end of a star spiral where lovers wrap one another in tender embrace and surrender to rest after hungry exertion; their own infernos sated on the frail lumber of their need. It wants to free the thick ground of its shallow crust, chew through the frost of this scarred turf and weaken gravity’s tug at cold centers that sit frightened of your light. Burn! Let your heat conquer the alloy of disdain and insecurity’s mantel. Put this ugly chorus in a molten chokehold and squeeze until the uttered nonsense of thirty-nine years soils the white linen of this frail facade; footprints melting a snow-claimed field of worship. Of finite things. Of a suitable mate. Of suit coats and leather and houses with wings and wallets fat with bills. Of each thing outside the Earth, stepping with incompetent surety to the constant rhythm of the great unwashed’s clamour. The rapid searing of ultraviolet truth threatens quixotic law, and so waters spill into the cracks and hollows of your quarry. To allow the bud of your spilled nurture to flower is to welcome life to a dead planet that knows the sun as a luminous cousin lost in the pin-pricked sackcloth of permanent twilight. Distant and alone, it spins in tenuous orbit around a fire that can’t possibly warm, dreaming of torrid comfort regardless.  (at Cauterize)

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