Wailing of the strings in the cloudless night
In the quiet abode of the stars.
Dying people wandering the expanses of the desert plain seeking
The water under their toes
The call of the coyote.
To feel there is nothing, but to be comfortably a part of it.
To feel that a throw of the dice could have given it all away
Or won it all for eternity.
To be under the weight, heaving upward.
To be the subconscious weight, stifling the rest.
To discover, upon diving, the corals and fossils of the depths
Emerging from the vacancy of the sea to the hummed chords of the distant sun.
the catalytic vibrations of the day in a cyclical dance
Tracing the avenue in its cement sarcophagus.