Waiting . . .
Expectance, watching the sky.
The dark spins itself around and around
And around,
whirling while the stars stand still.
I'm waiting, singing, waiting, watching.
Belligerent highland grasses whip my bare legs.
They are restless too.
The wind searches for the others,
tickling my nose with dandelion fluff and finally
bringing them to me.
Sighing into existence under the yawning sky,
their laughter precedes their appearance.
Musical, flute-like voices breaking into shards,
scraping my delighted ears.
Chimes bells jingling dancing vocal heaven
Six, one, seven
Each smells of a different spice.
As we touch fingertips.
Giddy singing through our souls.
Designs scratched into rough ground with toe-tips.
Circular feelings, angular lines,
Bursting into flames at the points . . .
Sparkle crackle dust magic.
The figure-eight of only seven.
The sky is where she is.
Her chariot is speeding her to us.
She wants to see me again.
She shimmers down from her celestial place . . .
Made of moonlight and bits of stars.
Black hair.
Black magic crowned with flowers.
Creating music with her presence,
spooky haunting tunes full of
*three-pointed tones*
She burns across the sky to me,
setting my heart aflame,
catching me with her insubstantial hands,
holding us all with her voice . . .
Infinity perfection completion forever.
Faces made of the moon looking down instead.
The Earth echoes.
The Earth is hollow.
Fistfuls of earth tossed into the fire.
Wonderful obsidian-colored rose magic.
High sorcery on dandelion fluff.
Tossed into the wind with words . . .
Heat melting sand into clear glass . . .
Growing glowing burning flying
Earth's core holds the goddess,
and she's coming
Infusing the night with her blackness,
filling the air with dark syrup,
with ebony light thicker than her kiss . . .
seven . . . eight . . . nine?
Seven mystical fever three three one
eight always always always
nine three three three
Three threes
Nine . . . ones