Lunacy and Libations

Well darling I’m torn between lunacy and libations, a perfect pair, a duo for the blue haired history makers. The men who dwell on consequence and contentious intentions, who postulate and pontificate within the boundaries assigned to them by their predecessors. It’s a story within a story, removed of contractions and words that end with L and Y. A scholar’s way of cleaning up the dirtiness of others lives. But oh what a mess we have left for them dear. Oh how they’ll work to pick apart the pieces of our erratic behavior, and what a chore for them to bend backwards to see through the lens that we used to view this life. To them we’re a generational sickness, brought on by external devices. To us we’re a chorus chant that can’t stop ringing in your ears. We’re the words of rebellion, the sounds of metal hitting lead, the feeling of two souls set apart from the status and a need for more…so much more than the world has to offer.

Do you feel me now? We have been on such separate wave lengths for days. But I see you through the static and the snow. Is this the legacy we are meant to leave? A path of broken glass and signs of forced entry, the hallmarks of our unrest, the calling card we made up on the way. We’ll spend our days in the hills, battling the world and its elements, proving to ourselves that we were made to be weathered and worn. The nights will cloak our movements as we learn how our bodies speak to each other.

I’m OK with this daily bread and the dew on the leaves. I’m content with the fibers and sinews that the ground can grow. And I’m happy with the path that our labor takes. Our hands to the soil, the soil to the sky and the satisfaction of an honest harvest is all that we need. No one need see our shelter, or give guidance to the way we breathe. We have left them all behind, to their ruinous behavior, given them over to the play by play cancer they never could control. Ours will be the dictates of the potter, theirs, the science and dice of death.

Oh what a picture we can create then we close our eyes. Can we use our daydreams as a ruler, a cornerstone upon which we set the foundations of our bed? Can we create a map to overlay our unseen trajectory, one that brings you closer, brings you continuously closer to me? One day, we won’t be able to see were I begin and you end. Our words will be remembered as a single thought, and our life, a defining action. If I’m the fingers, you are the glove. A pair that was always meant to work as one.