A human line

The horizon is flawless, a new way of stating that the stars mean nothing to me now that my eyes are locked to land.

The formerly deadly sky, less than ominous now without teeth or eyes, holds nothing for me. Not a vestige of a name or laden glance.

Night is absolute. Daylight a condition of some presences that turn regardless where you look.

The blue sky is as endless as my consideration. I choose to fold myself away from you, your highness. I choose to pull myself deeply into the parched ground. Count me among the refuse lining the old trolley tracks. Not even a roach deigns lift its head among such a wreck.

This is a form of mercy, of self ablution. The sky churns overhead, regardless the season, negligent of human failures, shrapnel, curses.

The lesson is to truly be mortal. To see with yellowed eyes the earth that issues forth from what we build. Human hands. Human ardor. Human waste.

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