All of My Prosaic Waiting

Make it holy

Make it holy

This is the silhouette

I’ve warned myself against

This whinger I’m impaling you on

- make it all holy

My sadness I wear like a scarf. It travels with me. I take it off and set it down, sometimes.

If there is enough light present in a room, the fabric will catch. It will glint.

Its weight doesn’t feel particularly heavy.

I have heard before of people regarding sadness as blue. Cold, even.

I am reminded of a candle.

The fire smacks its lips down that valley of hot wax.

The people who live there know songs a little less, they focus more on the primal punch of stars, surging through the rhythm of years.

Though they no longer remember dreams, they know what it was like to have held the sun as if it were a coin pressed hotly against their chests, a medallion missing its chain, the sort of aching that resents depth.

My sadness torches.

I have trouble determining its purpose. Whether it is to burn or to set alight direction, I wear it as a scarf.

They declare: leave any country that has a name.

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