At the edge of the world is the corner of every bookcase, filthy and abandoned by a herd of ventriloquists.
It’s okay to hate this place. You don’t really. You’re angry because it doesn’t work, for you or anybody you know. And you’ve known it for as long as you can remember, back when they pulled you apart, extracted the venom from your veins. And when the window’s ajar and the breeze visits each loose strand of hair, you imagine you’re just a silhouette easing your way through the ferns. Someone throws a grenade to blow up this eden so that you’re finally free to float away.
At the centre of the world is a canyon, formed by the the pillars of evolution.
It’s fine to feel like death. For death looks a lot like you. And everybody for that matter. Here nesting in our graves, below a renaissance moon and confined by a bitter sun. You scream out in decibels that bastard above owes you, if he ever cared to exist. Squandering a meagre appetite, maybe just a conclusion that our dens seldom satisfy our hunger anymore. And it’s been spring since the beginning of time.
We’re not okay. Ghastly creatures stumble forth. They reek of fear and stale wounds carved by flashes of the final sunrise. They gather beneath the evergreens of forests reaching their senility, with nothing left to take over when they’re gone. When every thing’s destroyed.
