In a line with the fire and the flock,
astray in the meadow
with the sheep and the fox.
Fire, walk with me in the attic of contempt
to mock my malaise.
A proud smirk—eyes, steel blue and angry, unblinking,
balancing the culprit of my damnation,
soapy tears that have mixed with my faults and sinew
to form a response, a lesson learned
but not applied.
A fledgling Shepard guides me, holding my hand
underneath a table of wood, our drinks balancing neither empty
nor full upon its top! Our heads, weary and heavy,
our voices no longer make sounds but merely take shape,
and so we tip toe along the dream in the cool evening hours.
Your laugh—the last piece, the most important piece—
sine qua non. And then,
all the pretty horses escape from their stables
and take over the fields,
galloping free in the sunlight.
The sun shall fall out of the sky and give way
to a canopy of stars and moon!
The meadow will creak and moan with insects and life,
fireflies will ignite the air in rhythmic blinks,
and the Shepard shall retire for the night.
A garden snake will slither amidst the weeds,
the fox will skirt the edge of the meadow—blanketed in darkness.
His eyes—little alabaster pools—
will dart from victim to victim,
in line with the moon and the flock.