Chessboard, cold, stringent-
I fell into the midst of the mist
New wood in old dust – Ghosts dance and twirl in the eddy of the tide
Ballroom ants hide behind heaps of rubbish- mounds upon mounds of cascading discarded dreams
Dark, blurred, beautiful like the symmetry of a corpse
Clammy in some – dusty in others
Off kilter music serenades the broken hip of society – down down they fall
No water that isn’t vile – No grass that isn’t stained
Names lost in a chalkboard – clothes hung against asbestos-laden paint, chipping away – falling in artistic piles
Words formed and faltered, lips parched like the paint – white and grey – perhaps it was pink once? – where does the pigment go?
Can it cease to exist and all that is left are the colors that our cones will not take in? Why do we see beauty in vividness?
I myself love the muted and foggy – foggy nights and clouded days have a way of undressing us.
We become better and more melded as a society. The sharpness of sunlight is not good for unification
My favorite was the ballroom – I can see scores of crows waltzing to unwritten music – their black glossy weaves swaying as they peck each other’s eyes.
Did you know crows have a distress call that signals death? When they cry out, other crows come and begin eating the injured. They hate weakness in their own kind.
Detroit is a murder of crows – all calling the same death song – all flying to eat and hide the shame of the fall.
How sad – how justifiable –
The doom will be and is their own. Maybe what they need is the fog – To cover and coat it all – The ugly and the beautiful
Crows and fog downing to their death song.
- Adolf Hitler
- Ann Widdecombe
- Art museum
- Chess piece
- Chronic Illness
- Dancing with the Stars
- Fountain pen
- Golden Retriever
- Hip fracture
- Ice cream
- Ice cream cone
- mindful living
- Performing Arts
- Sleep Disorders
- Tim Burton