Her Melodious Lay

Trying to remember, I tug a thread. Turn a thimble. Tumble the unknown, what I lived daily but saw no sense in documenting.

Those redwoods, somewhat large, though torn down by their own shadows as we drove past. Light settling far beneath and into a long stretch of distance.

Unproven, each day to summon the estranged. Birds fly to the rooted tree. The girl looked to the shore confused. Feeling that is also unknowingly false.

The clouds circled the sky, opening up in sections that flamed. Listening to those exciting rumours, those dry recitative mentions, dividing into their smallest parts.

Standing on rattlesnakes are the places where the threads are not visible. The art of making life less believable; the calculated use of language, not to alarm but to do full harm to our busy minds and properly dispose our listeners to a pain they have never dreamed of. The context of what can be known establishes that love and indifference are forms of language, but the wise addition of punctuation allows us to believe that there are other harms - the dash gives the reader a clear signal that they are coming.

Scraped away
Full of hope and madness