Just tell me who you are! Then we can be proper and have a real conversation.
Cool story. Thanks for the laugh!
In front of mass, Sunday celebrating Blade to the throat, In hands that tremble. She prays Congregation stands in applause For my blood spilled. Her followers bathe In crimson pools filling the pews. My frame hung From the rafters on wooden cross Upsidedown So the good will drain Into the crowd
The thin atmosphere made breathing hard. The blue was gone above me. Below the world turned. This was heaven for a time. Until our jet spent all it’s fuel. I fell fast through the clouds. Meeting the ground at terminal velocity. I perished in the desert.
Tell me who you are! And why I’m a bundle of sticks and twigs?
It’s “you’re”. And that might bother me, but I’m not gay.
As I fingered through the polaroids, kept hidden in a box under the second drawer of the old bureau. I watch her face turn from a smile too a blank stare. Like a flip book I witness the decay slowly eat the happiness from her grin. The background would change and the lighting different, but she always remained in the foreground. The more I played the little movie, I saw. Came to understand. That the person behind the lens, was the sickness behind your hiding smile.
The cord snapped taught under the weight of a falling mountaineer, his crampon loosened due to the thin air his lungs sucked trying to breath. The protection held, as did he for dear life. Her wind in the storms rolling from the west picked up, he bears down into the ice. Waiting. When it breaks enough to move, he pushes to the summit. He must reach the top, with every muscle screaming to halt the madness. His swinging arms miss, nothing, but the top of the world left.
So much so, I don’t want to “write” as you so lovingly put it. Thanks a whole heap.
