There are whispers in the air that speak of what the future holds - or more precisely, what the future brings - if I were to only follow them (these whispers). I watch from baited corridors wherein my traps are lain to circumscribe my only heart into a box made out of Alder wood, with a lid quite tightly locked (the key, not swallowed, but hidden nonetheless from me).
I watch as all the passersby - the tourists of this Life - go ambling about their days without regard to thoughts of Love and how they rest within it in the end. I stand, I sit, I fall quite simply in a trance wherein the old effects of Life are felt, ready to enclose me in the gates of their old wishes (subtle wishes, quiet claims upon my soul, feeble confidants, untrustworthy intoxicated friends, subscribed to all I have to say, but with no word in edgewise like "belay the thought of ever coming close to drifting through this dream alone"). Oh, mortal claims upon my heart, take hold! Grip me tightly in the darkest corners wherein my spirit falls to drift and dream and sift away the thoughts I wish to leave abandoned on the floor.
My heart, old beating thing, give me credence in the folds and lift me up when I am quiet and still wishing for a spark of light to come, to call, to drain me of my peace and craft for me a known desire without efficient means.
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