On days when the sky is a deep happy blue & the wind shivers gently on your skin, fragments of myself emerge before me. I imagine. My hand a crumpled, decaying mess of loose skin, dehydrated & annoyingly eerie in this beautifully radiant weather.
The sweet porcelain tinkling of bells caresses the wind. One must feel compelled to smile. But all I think is of withering, frowning, disheveled skin. The stench is beginning to tickle the fragrant air of butterfly glee.
A large bouquet of deep red roses sits pricked on a bare back. I bend closer, anticipating smell; fetid aroma of blood greets me pungently. My body wretches while the effortless smile paints of me a grotesque picture.
The frustrated baby has cried for long, the unslept mother delirious in her exhaustion stifles a grotesque thought of murder & mishap, “rock-a-by-baby-on-the-tree-top….”
A cold rhyme.
1 comment:
good to know you're back on the word gang
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