a pretty little tomb

hope is the thing with feathers
that perches on the soul
and sings the tune without the words
and must be promptly killed
with an adequately sized shotgun.
- Emily Dickinson

You ask of me what the matter is

"why is there no word from you?"

"what is there to do?"

We shall fight the fight

till the world end's night.

But only so long as there's hope.

And once it's gone there be little light

neither a point to stay, I fright.

What is done is done, now

all there is left, is to

lay it to rest; maybe

stick a nice flower on top

and call it a pretty little tomb

to something we once held dear.

Comments

the high seas

We are the stories that we tell our children “Mom, why did you tell him that dad’s dead?” She knew that this day would come soon enough. The girl's in her teen years; you can’t shut her up with the story of her dad being lost at sea. Though, quite frankly, that’s the closest thing to the truth. “Don’t tell me that you still believe that he’ll be back all these years later, do you?” “It’s not about what I believe. You never lost hope; and now I’m thinking you’re…” “Not now” , she snapped. She didn’t mean to, but she did. A small price to pay for living in a house with an antsy teen. “We’ll discuss this later.” She said, more calmly. She knew that this pot was boiling for quite some time now; they both have been feeling the heat. It’s up to her to make sure that it doesn’t boil over. She made a mental note to do something about this situation. But going there was bad enough for her herself, that she did not linger on what exactly is that she’s gonna do about it. ‘Time will pass’, ...

to hide from a hiccup

“It is not you that is the problem; neither is it drowning. You drowning; now that, is the problem.” As I was coming out of the big black building, texting an old colleague of mine, I set a man on fire. I know that you're thinking all the wrong things now. Stop. It's not about that. None of it matters. Just go with it; take it easy. It's just a man; he’s having a luminous day. So I look at this burning man, you see, and feel all these feelings. What do you mean? It's a human person, on fire! Don't you feel any sort of way you monster? Well, I do. I'm disturbed looking at this situation. I'm devastated. I don't feel like going home. So I say right there on the sidewalk. Since feeling this intense grief can't be good, I try thinking of something else. Something good; happy. There was this fantastic piece on youtube about the rotary vane engine and it's mechanical superiority over a reciprocating piston engine. But the screams just cut through like...

UpsideDownCake

Jo was the bottle of Pepsi, and the sad, almost empty bottle on the bedstand was Jo. Jo Manson woke up to the blue and red logo of the Pepsi company, with the black liquid serving a good backdrop to paste Jo's eyes on the logo and nothing else. But that red, blue, and white ball has been seared permanently into the brains of every human and fish alive, that one might even question the point of existence of the black liquid at this point. But one does not. "Stop staring", Jo snapped at the Pepsi bottle, and came to a more vertical state of being. Jo was made of said black liquid at this point, from having too much (which is the exact right amount) of it. Jo was the bottle of Pepsi, and the sad, almost empty bottle on the bed stand was Jo. Once at the sink, Jo opened own mouth, and fizzed, like any good can of soda. Jo looked at the toilet in the far corner with five stacked toilet seats. Jo needed a toilet seat, and bought exactly one toilet seat. The tiny trackers (w...

× does not compute ×

Search This Blog