We live in a world where we look at our mortality rates as victims. We are the mortality and we are the victim. We do our best to understand where we fit into each round hole. As if carnage from the heavens scrapes its teeth at the edges of our wars; and all the spillage frees the smallest of fractions while we struggle to dig half a hole.
We were trying to get there so we were there, and nothing was found. No wind. No noise. Nothing to smell and nothing to see. The digging for- found absence. Even the worms were away, also looking; for us to be found with thoughts free enough to live again.
I have this nearly non-stop feeling to leave the house and do something. Anything. Walk, hunt, fish, visit family, drive to the ocean, cross state lines and not follow rules. So, that’s what I do. I used to say to be free in America is to be without debt. But with Covid, my feelings on freedom has transitioned. Never did I think my government would prohibit movement and daily freedoms to the level they have. Thankfully, I didn’t listen, and it felt great to not listen and to find my new freedoms by not staying put. This may very well become the most important Spring of my lifetime. Every May flower is waiting to be seen. They only need to be planted first.
Through their blank eyes they speak their dead words as if they are them. They caress their means of existence as an exhibition of ritualistic rounds, with their spittle dried around the edges of their mouths giving way for the darkness to feed among each closing and opening of their haunted caverns; they truly believe they are among the structure of it all. And exactly as they are, we see.
Yes, they see you, and the trees also bend while justice plays tricks on us all; and the closed eyes linger a little longer, smelling the darkness and seeing the nothing while ears play songs the wind knows, and the wind knows how longer will stretch longest- A note from memory plays backward. Fly away. It said. So it came again.
Selected decisions effected the executions by which consequences reflected motion purposely put into place by the exact one whose actions were called to the floor in front of all the players they wished not to see, and through the open viewership, their greatest shame became reality.
He wished the door wouldn’t again open; knowing he’d be forced to become another version of himself. Placed unto him from a variation of life not meant to be seen, or felt, or lived. Now- the footsteps, so very light, unheard by the household so late at night, but felt by the boy, each and every vibration, knowing it would be soon time to close his eyes and beckon the rising moon to please take him along with its translucent majesty high above where his being felt the covers being lifted.
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