Friday, February 04, 2011
The paingt on the planter box was chipping. Whatever had been growing there had died long ago when the last summer day succombed to fall's deep chill. A cigarette smouldered in the dirt, and the plant-corpse shivered with November's cold chuckle, heard like a whisper beyond the distant trees. A storm was coming.
And they were crying. Crying so loudly, I couldn't hear it anymore because it the sound filled up my ears. Eyes so tired watched the clouds roll over each other, lazily tumbling toward the small white house. I couldn't see them scratching, clawing at each other's backs in mock affection, tearing at their soggy eyes, draining them of moisture. The black shrouded mass folded over and around itself, spilling from the doorway of the house, as the brooding black storm moved through the white sky and accross the trees. What would happen when they touch? The white sky narrowed between the two ominous masses, and the clouds cried out in a booming voice, cracking the sky with anger. The shrouded mass moved closer and grew louder. one confronting the other with shrieks, cries, and moaning black billows, a battle of sorrows. I turned my eyes from both, knowing total destruciton was inevitible now. The old oak tree dropped memories of folliage onto the bench's lap, and the corpse plant rustled. The dead were at peace. It's the living who should be mourned.
posted by Mary 3:47 PM
