No man is an island. Not even the blackened sun. Solstice tears, tossed upon the raging sea. People imagine a difference between poetry and prosper. A fundamental disconnect. They think magic can be cleaved from mirrors. A disassociated realm of pieces and things all existing in isolation. But this is never the truth of an incantation, or a song. The stars move as the sea is moved. In rhythm. In concert. This is far more than a public dreaming, or mortals cast as angels upon the stage of my own imagining. No, this is something I've fought for all my life. The endless, violent wanderings of a father. The quiet, noble battles of a mother. The living legacy of a child. All of us tossed and torn, upon this storm of tears. All of us lost without one another. I will never pretend to be anything more than a poet, but nor will I deny the truth of angels within this poet's heart. To know things one is not supposed to know, to see things one is rarely permitted to see. This mystery. This tree of living signs, like a key to a music box. A girl like a star beneath the horizon; her brilliance charting a course as she passes through the liminal realm and into the flesh once again. Renaissance. The promise of future light. Like gazing into a magic mirror. Poetry and prosper. Rhythm and song. Painted wings, silver storms. Things we almost remember.
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