He knew right where
to strike her. Drop by explosive drop, his liquid words whispered in the dark.
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Translucent,
shimmery green smashed on the windscreen. Eighty-seven miles an hour. Left in streaks of gut-splat yellow. Had we only slowed down, maybe we'd have noticed the beauty of wings. Lacey leggings and a fluffy tunic
never stopped his drummer. I can still hear him beating. Listen close, under the Universe. There’s something happening and man, is it glorious! Embrace it; that artistry you had wanted to throw out with the bath water. It never falters in its weirdness. Best just keep it close, next to the roses that line your thighs in the night, with the sequence tights that dance with painted faces glowing. All hail to His Majesty – our beloved Bowie. The day she died,
it seemed the air reached in and choked me. The grass shriveled and blue sky imploded into a darkness as solid as the earth. The ground could have gave way and swallowed me whole, I wouldn't have noticed. Everything was black, or deeply opaque at best. The day the heavens took my momma away, the sun threw shattered chips of memories at my feet for me to sweep. Nothing mattered and everything mattered all overlapping like stacked layers of conglomerate stone, the day our maker took my momma home. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |