Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
in drunken euphemism, an author pleads guilty.
he has spilled, chapters of crimson ink; placid waters; sunken vessels - drifting pirates in lucid seas. the progress of his ludicrous notions ever changing, like the shifting of constellations as the universe expands interchangeably - drowning in fragments of kaleidoscopic fusions of glass, fantasy, both.
the war he had scripted - constant and obsolete, hidden strategically in conversations over tea and butterscotch toffees, obscuring the truth. the fire-brands pummeling the streets - reeking with derision and vitriolic tones, have been layered: like winter clothing, like liberal monarchs. layered and masked with words of honeysuckle and verses of sunsets.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
the hands on the clock circle it's frame - grace envelopes it's mosaic, but it's screams are rutilant. the author hears its cries for help; and hastily rewinds it back in place, suppressing its pleas. the hands are clinging on, dragging its nails across the opalescent ivory, it's attempt at escaping foiled by another reset. the chains have bound itself back in place.
and time resumes - forced into place by terms we can understand: seconds, minutes, hours - 60 seconds makes up a minute; 60 minutes makes up and hour; 24 hours makes up a day
we have categorised time into nouns we can finally comprehend - allowing it to float about in themes of saudade, charring our hands in melancholy. yet, it slips out of our fingers, conniving and articulate in it's conspiracy. we conceal the truth behind gold foil and glass ornaments; unkempt lawns with lemon trees and soft melodies. we keep the concept of time in our tight grasp - to slow the process, to control the process.
but death and decay is inevitable.
no man can escape death. no emperor, king. no beggar or peasant. no sinner, no angel. because death reduces the most ruthless of emperors and generals to common men; because death brings all to their knees. because reality and fantasy are as wide asunder as the polar regions, as fire and ice. the ever changing fantasies of the author proves that an impermanence could last a lifetime; but also, it proves that the sun disappearing into the horizon, pulling streaks of light along in it's reign, in a blink of an eye, is an ink cartridge of reality, exploding and merging our skies.
