In this seaside mortuary most lives begin with a swoon, when one of those mountain lasses come across a hardened goon. These rag stitched cocoons cover the frigid grasp of the sea upon their hearts.
There was a small shrine next to the church; both Gods sat one day and from the saline clay wrote her chronicles. They talk to me about her in a drawing; beautiful, kind, grateful, all that could be called good. We like to plead before time, but we never know what to say; because I wouldn't remember how rats chirped when they nibbled at loneliness or how fingers withered but never stopped brushing tears. The truth is, she belonged to a cremated future, and she took me with it where sandcastles slept.
Absence without a reason, and only having hearsay to fill it is perhaps a pain I've grown accustomed. I know not to reach into empty coconuts where crabs would bite me, or swim endlessly until a ravine relieves me of breathing.
But, sometimes when the elders say that the monsoon is withdrawing, I help them organize a parade.
Some odd years into my anarchy, I held these revelries as my necessary distractions. The persistence of a person around you creates this myth of invincibility, that the village could be so merciful as to let you feel warm atop some wheel, with torches, lamps, music, laughter and not hunger. And then you sit, hear arguments in some vague court of law, how love is felt only but once and then just compromise.
I missed the last train to the city, and so I was convinced to build a raft and sail there myself. There were prophets in a family, lumberjacks in the day and an euphoric roll away from the pit. One would think that messengers of the divine wouldn't need help, but she made provisions in case disaster struck on the seventh day.
Every dog has his day, but none had two. Her supervisor advised her not to waltz with the lepers, so she'd sit beside me and not utter a word. Yet, the postmaster would come down with her letters, stamped by her melancholy and best if opened before the paper crumbled. I never wrote back nor did I speak because all I yearned were planets I couldn't reach.
Here you go, curtains from that fall. I remember her swaying to the one song in that movie of black and white, she loved. And all my joints could is try to get up from this numbness, and then slowly slip looking at her, complete. I wonder if the angels were frightened, when the goons returned, to take another lass.
When the morning came, there was a thunderstorm for the seventh time that week. You had to wait because these damp fireworks would never coalesce with the clouds. Keep the bottom of empty glasses stained with rings, so the rain beautifully dilutes your senses, and this rhetoric of a sin-washed breeze floats by. I'm still lying to this day, and this word that I escaped on a raft, when I cried out the ocean that was meant for this wrath.
There was a small shrine next to the church; both Gods sat one day and from the saline clay wrote her chronicles. They talk to me about her in a drawing; beautiful, kind, grateful, all that could be called good. We like to plead before time, but we never know what to say; because I wouldn't remember how rats chirped when they nibbled at loneliness or how fingers withered but never stopped brushing tears. The truth is, she belonged to a cremated future, and she took me with it where sandcastles slept.
Absence without a reason, and only having hearsay to fill it is perhaps a pain I've grown accustomed. I know not to reach into empty coconuts where crabs would bite me, or swim endlessly until a ravine relieves me of breathing.
But, sometimes when the elders say that the monsoon is withdrawing, I help them organize a parade.
Some odd years into my anarchy, I held these revelries as my necessary distractions. The persistence of a person around you creates this myth of invincibility, that the village could be so merciful as to let you feel warm atop some wheel, with torches, lamps, music, laughter and not hunger. And then you sit, hear arguments in some vague court of law, how love is felt only but once and then just compromise.
I missed the last train to the city, and so I was convinced to build a raft and sail there myself. There were prophets in a family, lumberjacks in the day and an euphoric roll away from the pit. One would think that messengers of the divine wouldn't need help, but she made provisions in case disaster struck on the seventh day.
Every dog has his day, but none had two. Her supervisor advised her not to waltz with the lepers, so she'd sit beside me and not utter a word. Yet, the postmaster would come down with her letters, stamped by her melancholy and best if opened before the paper crumbled. I never wrote back nor did I speak because all I yearned were planets I couldn't reach.
Here you go, curtains from that fall. I remember her swaying to the one song in that movie of black and white, she loved. And all my joints could is try to get up from this numbness, and then slowly slip looking at her, complete. I wonder if the angels were frightened, when the goons returned, to take another lass.
When the morning came, there was a thunderstorm for the seventh time that week. You had to wait because these damp fireworks would never coalesce with the clouds. Keep the bottom of empty glasses stained with rings, so the rain beautifully dilutes your senses, and this rhetoric of a sin-washed breeze floats by. I'm still lying to this day, and this word that I escaped on a raft, when I cried out the ocean that was meant for this wrath.
Comments
Post a Comment