The Crazies

The words flow effervescent from my lips like a silent dance.
Effervescent is not often compared to silent.  The sky was the color of dreams: lavender silk.
How does one keep this up?
This constant reaching, pulling, tugging, cutting.  How does one continue for so long?
I’m already beginning to admit defeat.  The sky is turning dark.
The buttons on my jacket sparkle red.  The rich clink quietly against each other.
The light bounces off one and lands on another, each diamond fighting for the spotlight.
A deafening drop resonates through the marrow in every one's bones.
How dost thou even heist??
How dost thou even dream of a heist??
These words drip gold from the now-emerald sky and pile themselves at my feet.
I trip.
I fall.
The ground turns water than glass than fire than smoke.
I plummet through them all, leaving no trace but a singed bit of hair.
My DNA floats above me, untraceable unless you are crazy.
Only crazy people can understand crazy people.
The sane ones all run and hide.
They lock themselves up in their big cars and their little houses and hope for the best.
They turn on the news and wait for someone to tell them what's going on.
But we crazies, we run out into the storm and frolick in the eye of it.
The sound hurts their ears but we only dance faster.
Spinning until we match the pace of this whirlwind.
The eye of the storm, the heart of it, the next best thing to life, is sizing us up.
Do we deserve this flee-ridden joy? I would say yes, of course we do.