Xanadu
 

How the moss carries the salty water. In bulk it sags above the mud earth—releasing a mere trickle of collected tears. Dropped with a splash, clumps stream in the pool, shifting en masse— parting at once from its figure while engulfed entirely by more. How the water holds the cold, shivering threads. Feather tendrils ripple to the song of swelling tide.

He peered through a spot wiped from his misted bedroom window. Flashing across the gaping black above was a streak of glistening light. It was a glowing hand reaching out to the singer, to the writer, to the runner, to his heart, gradually dimming— But he’s just another dreamer boy. The debris of rock turned to ash, a desolate disintegration. The condensation refills the glass.