An advancing army in their woolen coats, nervously approach.
Peat burning in the hearth, an earthy smell of warmth and home, yet choking. Icons litter tables and walls. Warm, homey, choking.
Driftwood fire pit. Built of wind and wave. Lunar sunrise.
I awoke to a heavy sheet of fog. Dripping from the sky. Enveloping stones and nestling itself amongst moss and moisture. Translucent, wet, thin as skin.
Cinderella swept into the street with the cinders. Lost like a slipper. She whispers secrets to rag haired dolls and enterprising street corner drifters.
I terrorized the worn buttons. Like all hope for humanity lay in answers scattered on a stranger’s floor. Torn from pages of yesterday…and the day before.
Hot, crystallized sea breeze turns starched sheet curtains against themselves. Requiring more monotony than torn apart monogamy can stand. Winded, two blood-rusted window panes bang on.
When shoes break up, it is not comforting to hear “don’t worry, there are other fish in the sea.” A shoe could search forever…and never say “Ah ha! Another shoe like me!”
The idea of the alien astounds me. Translated into alphabets that are not so much foreign as they are French. And yet, distanced more by a sentiment, than distance itself.
Lifeless lifelike faces, molded plaster souls, inextricably linked by lamplight and littered street corners.
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