Brought to the Mirage

A caravan of companions into the unknown.

We were riding shotgun for a while.

Are you bored with the passing landscape?

Bloody serration would feel better than to be a bullet point on someone's checklist.

I'd rather die of thirst than to be brought to a shimmering mirage over and over again. Tell me you understand.

Tell me I have more to swallow than my tears.

Every once in a while a shadow flees from my peripheral vision and upon its vapor trail I always ask, “what can I do for you?”

Can I please come in from the cold? Even a witch needs shelter from the storms.

Small round juncos pick at something unseen around the front stoop. Snow flakes fall by surprise here and there from swooping pine boughs. Everything grows incredibly quiet when one realizes this is it – there is nothing else.

I won't lie to you. Not you. Not facing the brilliantly polished mirror we have been gazing into for the last decade or more. The truth is: this is not it.

Can you see you still?

Instrumental Christmas songs are as close as I get to losing myself in holiday cheer.

In all the soppy sauce, I am still just sinking to the bottom, waiting for a mouthful of fresh air.