Sorrow is all consuming if you let it
Floating still in waters so near ice they burn, silent and empty – like boats left floating on the ponds of Roanoke. Physicality is life and you cannot spell life without lie although what is the cost or worth of it? The intake is acid maybe oxygen feels this way to flatworms and the gurgle surging up this throat clutches to it. Thrust back your head. In willing maybe sinking is probability.
Maybe Ophelia had it right…
Slow in gravitational trail, crossing endless fields of cream that garnet honey flows as rivers do. Saccharine leisure you can count the tally in groups of five is seductive. The world may not be a vampire but it certainly hungers for something. What is left to give after heart hopes wishes dreams soul?
Filled with an emptiness full to bursting and yet without feeling. The Nothingness was not some idea in book forgotten long ago. If you put your ear to the wall you can hear it coming for you. They lied when they said it was termites. And no one anticipates it; regardless it comes still – like natural disasters of the soul.
Pour out that tide of verve, rich in vibrancy with notes sweet as honeyed nectar flowers spill to bees.
It will break like waves cresting walls they shouldn’t be able to climb and will sweep swift over all, consuming pooling engulfing drowning. Escape futile from a stampede as overwhelming as the coming depths of oceans god hasn’t known. Cascade like waterfalls in damned villages from christian fairytales. In reality christians are vampires, drinking the blood of life. The puddle matures into pond as the form collapses, colliding with marble in vein attempt at stillness. That white escarpment bleached as bone blinds and that sanguine pond spreads as oceans do when ice ages end.
…The slowing clock stops
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