Under a sky dripping with ink, autographed by providence—twilight mourns day—weeping fireflies in remembrance.
Bullfrogs sing gospel within the hymn that rhymes to the cadence of your heart—like a primal serenade. Birds grieve the aurora with an exodus of sorrow, lamenting their suffering—a sigh amidst the eulogy.
I bathe in fear. Saturate and immerse myself—and marinate in the feeling.
I am alone.
I grasp handfuls of innocent grass like its hair, and howl. Rivers, rich with salt cascade from my eyes—a stockpile in the reserve—overstock of consciousness.
I am a contradiction, a disparity in the distinction because I also rejoice in my solitude and savor it like something rare—something scarce—something safe.
Ah, yes.
There it is.
Safe.
I am protected within my barren and desolate life, so I walk the tightrope of time with my eyes closed because it’s too painful to see—and yet—I feel—so exquisitely—sometimes it’s unbearable.
I writhe around amongst warm dirt and handfuls of grass—I clutch with such veracity—I think for a moment—it’s someone’s hand—and then I laugh amongst the howling and the cascade of tears—spitting grass and dirt out of my mouth—grit resting on my teeth like something concrete—
I feel crazy because I don’t know what the fuck I want—so I lay there, under the sky dripping with ink—autographed by providence—with twilight mourning day—weeping fireflies in remembrance.
the sky dripping with ink
weeping fireflies
walking the tightrope of time
so much beauty in this poetic prose...
alongside the depth of despair, makes for a perfect piece of kintsugi (=golden joinery) writing.
I see a new literary genre in the making.
Wow. This one is mastery.