The sea roared in a kettle, signalling to the lone occupant that cold winds do not come bearing gifts of tea and wool. Lifting the lid, one is reminded that every peek is reprimanded by those that pay silence to avoid consequences. The flux of leaves and water seemed like a dance of November. They would lose their colour, yet flourish like an aerated whirlpool where burns release from a dark, eternal torment.
The wobbly chair from Mother's wedding found its perfect fit between two eroded rocks. Their erosion was not apparent because it had so taken to the mahogany of the limp chair that it wished to birth the seat from its own womb. Alas! If stone did birth trees, none could be a greater sin than to hide the fact about wildfires from them. They aren't a wisp to embrace, but a sight that pushes senses into the roots, so in all that ashen numbness, one might still qualify being alive.
These years gather on the eyes; I dreamt of a box full of them, little fish scales stuck to the insides of a wet wooden box. Because there's a price for every sunset since eighteen; of course, you pay extra for drunkards, terminal kids and lovesick doves. And one day, someone sings of your fading life and you rush, rush to melt these scales with a candle, oblivious of the wax between your fingers and around your toes. I take another sip, it's bitter and I lick the flame.
When wonder urges me to talk, I say jars are perfect cages. A cricket clicks its tongue and the crumpled paper in my pocket turns blank again. How? They do not cling onto an existence or attempt to find meaning in words. There's just a faint odour or tint when they lose significance, something that can be corrected by a whiplash of water. Pause.
I can feel the ceramic part, I wouldn't know if my fingers have conspired in this. Everything happens for a reason? No, everything requires a reason. The lead in the jar was once stardust shed by a firefly, and now it waits for the next wave to wash it away.
A letter comes towards the end, with a map of roads that strangely run along the wrinkles in your palm. Where to? To your desire to wrap her in torn jackets, outside shop windows with funny names. At the end of the street, where the ticket turns a blind eye and you want a moment in all of this. The night is cold, and we're out of tea.
The wobbly chair from Mother's wedding found its perfect fit between two eroded rocks. Their erosion was not apparent because it had so taken to the mahogany of the limp chair that it wished to birth the seat from its own womb. Alas! If stone did birth trees, none could be a greater sin than to hide the fact about wildfires from them. They aren't a wisp to embrace, but a sight that pushes senses into the roots, so in all that ashen numbness, one might still qualify being alive.
These years gather on the eyes; I dreamt of a box full of them, little fish scales stuck to the insides of a wet wooden box. Because there's a price for every sunset since eighteen; of course, you pay extra for drunkards, terminal kids and lovesick doves. And one day, someone sings of your fading life and you rush, rush to melt these scales with a candle, oblivious of the wax between your fingers and around your toes. I take another sip, it's bitter and I lick the flame.
When wonder urges me to talk, I say jars are perfect cages. A cricket clicks its tongue and the crumpled paper in my pocket turns blank again. How? They do not cling onto an existence or attempt to find meaning in words. There's just a faint odour or tint when they lose significance, something that can be corrected by a whiplash of water. Pause.
I can feel the ceramic part, I wouldn't know if my fingers have conspired in this. Everything happens for a reason? No, everything requires a reason. The lead in the jar was once stardust shed by a firefly, and now it waits for the next wave to wash it away.
A letter comes towards the end, with a map of roads that strangely run along the wrinkles in your palm. Where to? To your desire to wrap her in torn jackets, outside shop windows with funny names. At the end of the street, where the ticket turns a blind eye and you want a moment in all of this. The night is cold, and we're out of tea.
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