Remembering how the rose wilted was one of the most painful experiences of my life and all the thought that went into contemplating that complexity has led me to lead a life of solitude,
For what can bring one back from the edges of that despair, and what chance does a soul have to reenter a body it has left when it is bereft with such traumatic sadness,
As the garden faded into natures dust, and the sands of time blew over everything I was an unfeeling mass of ectoplasm hovering over my own grievances,
I could not feel the kiss of the wind nor the caress of blasting sands but only the tender nothingness of floating as an ethereal presence only staring at the earth as an observer through a screen,
In the midst of that pitiful reaction I settled down amongst the ground only to find that I missed that level of viewing and the sight from a top was frightful and distracting,
I could not see those woods for those trees and all the bleakness and the missing bees of that season were there attracted to the simplest life boat - a sore little flower determined to grow,
Remembering the spring time I felt a tingle of response over the jellyfish membranes of my afterlife go and remove itself from that place and I was warm to the pecks of sand that comforted me in the winds,
On the other side of my remorse and my pity was a budding world where stinging insects dissected the milk of the flowers to create their colonies and it was beautiful and soon by judgements all my own, I willed myself back to my body,
Though it had been buried under the sand trap of time I dug my way out cherishing every shouldered vertical push until the beams of the welcomed sun seemed to lift me up to my feet,
And through my eyes - for they were the same eyes - I saw that the rose pedals had never wilted it was I,
I who had perceived them so.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Monday, August 7, 2017
A Cleansing.
The young boy ran among the muck and decided to drown his hamster there. The beating rain that rattled against the moist earth let out a funeral snare so that the entire world surrounding that place could understand the horror that was being accused. Much to the boys surprise the hamster did not flail or fight back, it twitched, and then accepted itself to the afterlife. In this way it seemed mother nature took pity on the small creature, deeming its demise a liberating act to the atrocities of the sick child.
The boy named Trent dipped his booted feet into sinking soils and found his way home covered in the grime of the world, the lifeless brown muddled mass of mud in one fist. His face beemed a satisfied smile but the beating of the rain drops told a story akin to disapproval. Somewhere up above the people would have surmised that the Lord was troubled by the acts of his creation for after all he knew every hair on his head but he did not gather all the thoughts within.
At home young Trent buried his poor pet hamster in the sewers, flushing it down the toilet bowl where its coat of mud had broken away in a mist amongst the blue hue of the toilet water and circled its light brown mass through the funnel of draining water. His eyes followed it as it vanished, and when he could not see it it was out of mind, and he wiped his filthy hands on the sides of his khaki shorts. He exited the bathroom with a calm sigh of relief and went to the kitchen to join his family for dinner.
His mother looked aghast at him standing before the dinner table all covered in natures grime, she observed the hand prints upon his shorts, and the mop of hair that fell against his forehead having been forced that way by the driving rains but now was in that delicate and disgusting area of disrepair but unable to fix itself. She chastised him and he huffed at her and scowled his unsettling scowl, and she dropped the point. Now that her exasperation was mooted she returned to eating, and he too began to eat. He rudely reached across the table passing his disgusting hands into the buttermilk biscuits leaving his mark on many of them.
"Son of a bitch." His father exclaimed just after the door slammed shut near the front of the house. "Who tracked mud all over the carpet?" The boy called Trent sat silently eating his biscuits, and he did not react. Not out of fear, but out of pure bliss of knowing that he was safe from reprucussion. The father moved into the kitchen and saw the muddy child, and he swallowed the swell of anger that was growing inside of his throat. His face reddened with rage returned some of its natural color and he moved to his location at the head of the table. The father reached across the table and retrieved and dirty biscuit, and he stared at it and then at his wife, and young Trent bit into his own. The father bit into his, mud and all.
Later that night when Trent himself had felt that he had been dirty enough he walked into the shower and washed off all his mud. He did not notice the clogged toilet bowl rising water over the rim that splashed all over the linoleoum floor. And his feet heavy with lathered soap slipped against the floor and he was suspended ethereal in the light of the singular ceiling bulb. The collision with his head against the edge of the bathtub was subtle but cracked enough that he was instantly lost to the human world.
When the body was discovered the parents of the little boy Trent decidedly quickly to cremate him. It wasn't for any other reason that to ensure that the flames perfectly consumed him and when they brought his ashes home they emptied them into the clean toilet not knowing that they were uniting him with his dearly departed hamster.
The boy named Trent dipped his booted feet into sinking soils and found his way home covered in the grime of the world, the lifeless brown muddled mass of mud in one fist. His face beemed a satisfied smile but the beating of the rain drops told a story akin to disapproval. Somewhere up above the people would have surmised that the Lord was troubled by the acts of his creation for after all he knew every hair on his head but he did not gather all the thoughts within.
At home young Trent buried his poor pet hamster in the sewers, flushing it down the toilet bowl where its coat of mud had broken away in a mist amongst the blue hue of the toilet water and circled its light brown mass through the funnel of draining water. His eyes followed it as it vanished, and when he could not see it it was out of mind, and he wiped his filthy hands on the sides of his khaki shorts. He exited the bathroom with a calm sigh of relief and went to the kitchen to join his family for dinner.
His mother looked aghast at him standing before the dinner table all covered in natures grime, she observed the hand prints upon his shorts, and the mop of hair that fell against his forehead having been forced that way by the driving rains but now was in that delicate and disgusting area of disrepair but unable to fix itself. She chastised him and he huffed at her and scowled his unsettling scowl, and she dropped the point. Now that her exasperation was mooted she returned to eating, and he too began to eat. He rudely reached across the table passing his disgusting hands into the buttermilk biscuits leaving his mark on many of them.
"Son of a bitch." His father exclaimed just after the door slammed shut near the front of the house. "Who tracked mud all over the carpet?" The boy called Trent sat silently eating his biscuits, and he did not react. Not out of fear, but out of pure bliss of knowing that he was safe from reprucussion. The father moved into the kitchen and saw the muddy child, and he swallowed the swell of anger that was growing inside of his throat. His face reddened with rage returned some of its natural color and he moved to his location at the head of the table. The father reached across the table and retrieved and dirty biscuit, and he stared at it and then at his wife, and young Trent bit into his own. The father bit into his, mud and all.
Later that night when Trent himself had felt that he had been dirty enough he walked into the shower and washed off all his mud. He did not notice the clogged toilet bowl rising water over the rim that splashed all over the linoleoum floor. And his feet heavy with lathered soap slipped against the floor and he was suspended ethereal in the light of the singular ceiling bulb. The collision with his head against the edge of the bathtub was subtle but cracked enough that he was instantly lost to the human world.
When the body was discovered the parents of the little boy Trent decidedly quickly to cremate him. It wasn't for any other reason that to ensure that the flames perfectly consumed him and when they brought his ashes home they emptied them into the clean toilet not knowing that they were uniting him with his dearly departed hamster.
Wednesday, August 2, 2017
Cycling
There was a decidely dark day in the middle of a measely may rain when little children sparked the spirit of disinterest in the hearts of adolescents adorning the aged halls of a secondary school,
They fawned over the height of intelligence that the towering teens demoted and graveled at their feet with questions as wisful and precarious as the precious poetry of children's vocabulary,
The older children commended the appetite but did not feed the mouths of the babes for they were too preoccupied with racing minds of sexual desires and motus apprendi of self esteem assaults,
They were told to look with lidless eyes into the abyss of future times so that the horrifying detrimental faces were all the little kids could hope to abide for that is what they saw in their saintly little eyes,
Afeared they were of growing old that the children read up on Peter Pans and Wonderlands, craving to crawl through cavernous holes to follow the white rabbit towards a better goal,
But after all of that the adults still drove them towards the end of the earth where seniors in schools stood on the brink of an amazing abyss and shout to them to grow up and be damned,
And the people on the other side of the monsters eyes, who are imprisoned and watch with tearful blinds, continue dribbling out the sadness sanctioned on them by those who pushed them over the cliff side,
There was a decidely dark day in the middle of a measely may rain when little children sparked the spirit of disinterest in the hearts of adolesencts adorning the aged halls of a secondary school.
They fawned over the height of intelligence that the towering teens demoted and graveled at their feet with questions as wisful and precarious as the precious poetry of children's vocabulary,
The older children commended the appetite but did not feed the mouths of the babes for they were too preoccupied with racing minds of sexual desires and motus apprendi of self esteem assaults,
They were told to look with lidless eyes into the abyss of future times so that the horrifying detrimental faces were all the little kids could hope to abide for that is what they saw in their saintly little eyes,
Afeared they were of growing old that the children read up on Peter Pans and Wonderlands, craving to crawl through cavernous holes to follow the white rabbit towards a better goal,
But after all of that the adults still drove them towards the end of the earth where seniors in schools stood on the brink of an amazing abyss and shout to them to grow up and be damned,
And the people on the other side of the monsters eyes, who are imprisoned and watch with tearful blinds, continue dribbling out the sadness sanctioned on them by those who pushed them over the cliff side,
There was a decidely dark day in the middle of a measely may rain when little children sparked the spirit of disinterest in the hearts of adolesencts adorning the aged halls of a secondary school.
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