Melting into Strangeness

And then in the morning the first snow fell. 

After the breaking point was hit. After the foggy, smoggy glass 

was dripping 

clear 

with each furious, 

tiny, burst. 

Furious - 

in that flurried, fluttering - 

excitement 

for a fleeting fall 

- it'll hit the ground and halt. 

But it'll make the most beautiful forgotten trails. 

It'll melt. 

It'll let me steal from it - 

and crush the infamous pieces 

into daubs of paint - 

deep cuts of paint

and ink

and burns. 

And melted wax. 

I've been missing melting into strangeness. 

Been suffocating the roaring madness within for a hand to hold. Just a hand.

I hardly was let to know the force of it. 

It slips 

so quickly then. 

It dulls 

so easily then. 

When you've known the greatest creatures - 

who always left the door 

unlocked in the roughest part. 

Who allowed the touch. 

Allowed the desperate 

condensation of hours - to be lost into sounds. 

How it makes my madness growl now. 

How it tingles - 

hearing the piano keys speed in tempo 

echoing the sound 

against the very orchestra rafters. 

Listen. 

Listen to the excuses to leap.