rain… the kind that winked at you with its fine eyelashes that you felt all over your face. rain… that made you eighteen again and able to fall morbidly in love with someone who only thought about you when it was very necessary. rain… that pulled the clouds down low over the rooftops and veiled…
Dream in the Orange Orchard
Any moment now, I will fall asleep. The ground intrudes onward with parched leaves and muggy soil. Bits of it bleed into my ankles as I tread sorely and tediously downhill in the tropical arboretum. It is as big as a forest. There is no one in earshot. The sky, a little hazy, cannot bleach…
The hills of Phyrwold are empty places. They are always empty, of life wild or domesticated to subservience, or of death pervasive in decaying roots and bleeding rivers – emptiness instead holds her pale, pliant hands around the sky, a terrarium of silent fog and silenter rain to paint the trees in silver…
Thanks for visiting my website! I will be sharing stories & poems here, very soon.