They climbed chain linked fences like the vines holding the trumpeting flowers do, slightly slanted, bright and woven through each rung as if the route was laid out on a cross stitch. Left two, up one, and then over all at once. Looping back through slick creek-beds in quilted patterns, Intricate highways, mental maps.
Knees bruised with pride. Hands cut. Stinging with that kind of rage that quickly shifts to laughter. And then back to rage.
Anamneses for eternity, oversized masks now unrecognizable. Leaves crushed under boots. Tracked into classrooms. Some bulbs changed before burning out. Others broken and replaced. Unflattering for so many.
There were honeybees but wasps too. The buzz reverberated into heat you could taste. Birds served as an oracle for those vibrations. By December their secrets were stored as acorns in shallow graves.
Once adorned in lace, the chosen turned to rigid leather. Designations across their angel wings. Symbols of success in their own time. Mountains climbed. Peaks reached. What a fall came after. But who can blame the fish for growing? When they were given the space, the food, the light?
In red waters all they could do was float to the top. Sunbeams piercing only the very surface. Suffocated by that unavoidable and exponential surge of life that had been been so fervently promised in glass walled rooms. Pressurized by vacuum sealed ambition.
dailybridgerton
prguitarman
janainaart
origamiaround
annaxmalina
snowghoul
areudirty
