Kingfisher Blue

Reveal to me places of no sense and histories retold, unravel the mysteries invented to spite. Find that which is impossible and dress it in clothes threadbare, never doubting there are too many lies for detectors to catch and shamans to explain by ways inscrutable and rash. In the heavens far above and the depths deep below, exist no templates for direction nor tableaus explaining the cut and thrust and rhythm and flow. Count the fingers, count the toes, stand on two legs and stretch arms to their ultimate breadth in a cognisant act to transport the head into realms defined by the desire to know. There we might find the needle possessing of a point so fine, purpose made to pick a thread invisible to the naked eye, the kind we might suspect of having no substance and least of all rhyme. And to here the wayfarers arrive, sneaking glances over shoulders in wonder and suspicion, thinking that perhaps all along there has been nothing but a great game underway, its adherents both ignorant of mind and shy, and somehow, complicating the matter on the fly, sporting smiles warped and rye.