I think sometimes of roofs. I think sometimes of crypts. The bellowing gorge of abandonment. A peopled brink severed to the air, but just to the storm.
I think sometimes of masks. I think sometimes of brows, of thunder-tang roiling within as lip dispenses sweetened portions.
Some worlds are bereft of a
smell, the bludgeon of gods when foot is set on strange verge. I think
sometimes of them. They make a limb stride naked to spirit.
I think sometimes of might. I think sometimes of illusion. A stung stalk would bow to a passing sun yet passionless to fevered sap. A smile would inspire the rains but splice mind with denial. I think sometimes of faces.
I think sometimes of roads, of famished filaments of doom. The youth of preacher-men retched upon the belly. Incantation squelching gore.
To end is to crown. Yet beginnings lurk in wounds. Beginnings recoil within the void of fissures. Beginnings end in passionless chimes of a tired world.
I think sometimes of spiders, where once to me the faceless touch of a cobweb arose. I think sometimes of nights. I think sometimes of miracles. I think sometimes of love.
I think sometimes of clothes I have worn, the fleeting girth of flesh, the timeless tragedy of progression. What strain of will hugs life to its breast and deserts the night next?
I think sometimes of roots, of millions of tongues fugitive from truth. Hermit, you must deny the cave. Traveller, you must deny your home?
Dreams are variable. Variables are dreams. Insolent, variables assail dreams. Rebellious, dreams assail variables.
I think sometimes of death. Impassive brush of ice. Last returning of a stark impatient wrath. Grey plumes and wrinkled mats. I think sometimes of grandmother.
Of three I think sometimes. Of embraces matchless. Of trysts past. Of three I think sometimes. Maybe some time, I shall think of four.
Photos By Akudinobi Minella (@minadabelle)
