Midsummer song for a wasted year

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The brilliance of 8 p.m. on summer solstice, the insignificance of individual life in contrast with the all-encompassing fires of Litha. The light at the apex while the heart is cave-like and ringing the hollow songs of anxiety and ache.

Ten in the shade, reversed and sinking lower while still whispering “what goes down must come back around.” Whispering as if it spoke a truth alike to gravity.

To be sure, I’ve found no truth to the mechanisms of fate, no patterns to recognize among the things which happen and the things which do not. What goes down can continue burrowing because the earth is a greater thing than a heart or a nerve.

Though it is bright and beautiful, I sit under the oak and shift the card in the grass under my hands that shake as my lungs rattle with cough and cry.

Though today is a long day, the days that follow will be shorter and darker. And even with all this sun I can’t help but feel the world is small and dark already and I’m not sure how much more of this shaded brevity I can endure.

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