Christian, prose

the silence after the implosion was not deafening (revisited)

Canberra trip 108.jpg

They always loved the way they both loved waterfalls.
As if it weren’t enough to drive through that scenery on the way, with its exhilarating verdancy,  the serpentine paths unmarked, illuminated by their shared love of, well, their shared love.

But now, his muscles twitched.
Her emotions repelled down, down from the cliff of his hardened inner life. Over the cascade of his own unformulations. Starting that landslide, you know, the inward one. The one that implodes stars…

leaving burn marks on the pavement. The ones that stranger, whistling at the end of the week, steps over.
He’s wishing those darn kids would quit playing with fireworks again!
But, you have to admit, it IS a great night for a campfire…

 

Originally posted Jan 13th, 2017

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Poetry

origamied

The words of sages

supposedly wise supposedly.

 

Ancient repackaged as new.

 

The air choking with nuances amiss and/or askew,

complacencing my view.

 

The forest floor

thickening under my feet

as I run. (Is this running?

maybe walking. maybe crawling.

maybe breathlessly clawing.)

 

The impact

folding me in

until I’m sure I can’t be folded

any more.

Cutting in all those places

I don’t want to be cut.

Of course.

 

Living in hope

of being taken out of this drawer

and being in the understanding.

in the unfolding…

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