Sweaty Palms At Sunrise

I feel the turn of fickle stars in my palms, wrenching their way out, challenging the ambition of a sinner's grasp. It all falls loose; sand at the feet of eternal eyes, staring back into the shadows of memory. Dreams struggle for breath, suffer desperation, lack of color. And in their whisper I squint like an old man trying to find his way back to the trail's head. But in these woods I have no bearing; no point of reference, only empty hands left wanting, too arthritic to hold any sort of luster or salt of tomorrow's promise. And so, I am left to wait... Suspect to the charm of a menacing horizon that promises nothing but a burning reminder of what I could not hold onto. -James Kelley 2014, All Rights Reserved.