A lifetime of wordplay. Sorting out the right series of sentences to motivate a hopeful conclusion. The purity of thought. Always on the edge of tongue-tied. What to say next? Will it suit? We here are on the left hand of God. That central sun that pulls us around. Spinning into night and turning past to day. The face of a projection that paints us where it will. If you smile or cry, it is in the dark. This is hidden after all deep in the shadowy hollow within. This interior where no light cannot penetrate. And only you and your thoughts abide. Who is the one that determines if these impressions will bear fruit into speech? Is it anyone’s right to claim perfection? Too many are so easily seduced. A snappy rhythm. A reciprocating suite. The animal moves one. The wording flows. The spirits stored up from others trying to paint them down. What does it come to in the end? Some will wander in the dark because that is their compañero. The light of the sun is lost. Painted on a window half an hour before dawn. You are its creature. It will never know another. The one that truly understands. There are no two of anything in this world. Only the same one come back to haunt. He is your witness. The knower of things that only you can tell. There is nothing else to say until the end.
The Spectral Compañero