the impending Quiet

in the pungent quiet, i can smell my thoughts, burning grass sifting to Heaven in thin plumes, incense. that childhood's innocence and clarity of the way it all would be provoked me with such certainty at nine or eleven. there's something sharpening about teenagers on fire when your own is a cinder smoking and you can't figure out whether the nine-to-five hours muddle the message or if it's indigestion but here i am looking in the dark for orion's sign- the certainty of spring. wings and roots, this age-old game toy with the time given and there is such uncertainty embedded in the inner voice, wishing in ways that i could just step back into the carefully-laid plan of being an m, that life could cease its complications. but instead i lie underneath a starless night staring up at the black expanse, void of moon's illumination. mirth lies with me, a cock-eyed grin on her face. He looks down upon us expectantly, waiting for me to say yes to the question that is my certain mystery.