When it all started I felt illuminated.
The light was small but I was a well-oiled machine. Churned, and cranked, and burned so bright that I gleamed from behind your shiny eyes.
We were growing strong and fast and without consequence when the first wrench got thrown into the gears - an insult in one of the ears. A cold steel hunk of a word, whirled in and nearly knocked me out flat.
The kid that threw it, I doubt that he was even aiming for me.
I got by, just some added resistance. The gears, a little rusted now and make a sort of rhythmic chink-chink to a beat. I... almost like it, but I know that with every turn-around it's wearing down, bit by bit.
Later, you fell in love, or got confused, anyway, and the gears reeled and stuttered and our bulb went white and hot and pissed until it finally cracked. And everything went black.
Now the light that burned bright is chipped and dim. The energy I burn to make the gears turn gets little in return, so I try to take it slow, keep just enough light to see my way around.
No sense in sweating to see a little further, right?
Maybe sometimes we'd rather stay in the dark.
Light Headed by Andy DeVries
No comments:
Post a Comment