Frequency

The sun is under a lot of pressure. 3.84 trillion psi at its core. Hot enough, free enough, to compose wild-eyed symphonies. 

I am growing and burning. Each sunrise reminds me that I am going to die. The trembling gold solidifies and I turn back up the asphalt road, pinned to the indelicate laws of pendulum motion.   

Navigation is tradition. We walk through the sunrise and into the sunset. 

there and back again 
and dragons 
with fiery stomachs
and home 
with a hearth inside. 

We dance; 
we tango in alleyways
and taste the dirt in our red wine

Living,
the stars shine and create and fill us with the bloody music of our legends.