Does A Wolf Shave Its Tail?

We were born with mountains

We were born with mountains and I was born with rivers, with transient minds, equal parts knowing and solidly rooted, thrashing through ferocious teeth against an unrealistic old fence.

Believing to belong behind a pale blue and antique Royal typewriter, a smoky room and a glass of whiskey fueling ideas and thoughts, turning them, through every single slowly pounding click-clack of beautifully stylized lettered keys, into words as powerful as the force behind that thundering hammering ink.

Dreams maintains a lucid coolness. Only ever pausing for a breath when the earth herself wills it so.

The Royal typewriter changes its identity and stays in its own bizarre world of the present from time to time, but it still click-clacks, click-clacks, click-clacks.

The same fuel fires the same engine, the same expulsion of breath heats the same rushed words that weren’t given a fair shake, the same stupid recklessness takes heed of the same stupid atlas. The same damned bull-headed steadfastness grips a helm so weatherworn and wise, that sometimes,

But only ever sometimes,

And only when he has decided that he must run into the purples and crimsons that keep the night from attaining any true blackness,

I grow tired of his stubbornly sage advice and must ask him to spit it back into the sea.

Even crooked crawling fingers, so unwavering in their wild meandering, still flex and crack sickeningly and extend. They work just enough to pulse life through painful creaking bones to warm those same ancient keys, the same ones that could never stop their click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

Those beautiful black and gold keys never stopped, not for one solitary spiteful second, believing in a vividness that could never exist here with you and I.

There was still life in those keys.

There was still a story to tell.