The Wax Conspiracy

One breath is eight too many

Free falling through morning, a sparrow takes a dive. Calm, clipped and beating a heart of dispassionate wanting. Of something else. Anything. Nothing. A lot of things.

Falling through the sky, watching a spiral vision downward. Here there be the ground. And now the clouds. Here now a feeling of depression. Atmospheric at least.

Toward and on fast forward, so slow without repeat. Climbing and slipping. Slipping and climbing. Down, down, down. Up beaks the whirl. But upbeat? Not this world.

Morning is soon afternoon and the overcast is looming.Clouds stumbling out and rolling in from the left. Dark skies to darker hearts, sighs be blackest now.

Boom crashed the opera as the symbols play on. Lights with no cameras, but so bountiful of action. And now comes the teardrop audience, roaring of intrigue.

Wearing their staring, the din does the head in. Sadder and sadder still with each passing, lonely, second. Nothing to look up to but the buried ground.

Evening slyly casts a shadow's void along the neck. Defeat at the feet after a feat of daring. Back now to the world up there. So high.

Too far to fall for no flaw at all. Dusted, down and out, the downed is not out. Up and up again. Up, up and away again.

One more go and another to a distant triumph. Another day, another week, another hour in the dirt. So much easier to fail, to feel the hurt.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 9 September 2009

The Wax Conspiracy

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