An Aesop Fable of sorts:
Revelations, unbeknownst to me, like these sacriligous figures, pick me up and set me down. like the arm of a long fogotten record player. Until now, I'd been revolving slowly in this revelatory instance, while simultaneously attempting to catch my breath as a cat to a moth. I'm not entrirely convinced, though, that this revolving reccurance is any more revolutionary than the flight of the long awaited crow which picks you out of a crowd.
You, who had been so misguided, with shining eyes, shimmering skin and a look so delightfully melancholy as would make Poe blush in shame. This crow, having made your acquaintance long ago, has the uncanny ability to deliberately delineate your mostly fair-ish appearance.
A jingle, a jangle, a buzz and a whisper mark your coming. This is not, though, what this member of the pie, that mostly melancholic and murderous pastry, takes not of. After all, he is no Beethoven. He is no friend of St. Francis, he has no aspiration so high. This one introduces himself with a cantankerous look in his eye, that black remoreseless bead straight away from the stub of a beak. As you stand, taught and firm, draped in wardrobe befitting those delightfully despicable early Sunday speakers, you examine possible escape routes as the garbage eater hops steadily closer, no stealth in his movements.
Now silence rings out from the space beween the aviary actor and you. You notice, quickly the flower budding slowly to your left and the slow black snake emerging from the rubble of your revolving past, post mortem. Now, a conundrum. The snake, surely as his movements render others immobile, will no doubt attack the crow. It appears, of course, that this evolutionarily signified veloceraptor can take flight, but nothing is certain today. The sky is bright and full of a forboding sort of gesture. Perhaps this is why the bud caught your eye an instant before the serpent.
The question still remains; are these two, the bud and the crow, worth the movements of your sun across theis forboding fetid face of heaven? You most certainly have a vast, unmentionable heart. The query of the day is which? The serpentine antagonist against the aviary slum lord produces within you an entirely unreasonable amount of fear and angst. The small blushing bud, meanwhile delivers a dismal satisfaction, a bit of the old revolutionary reconaissance on your soul emits from the still hidden stamen.
To be on an isle such as you are is not envious. Neither means anything, yet both have possibilities for further explorations and both may prove passing putrid mud flaps on this steaming locomotive of existence. In essence, useless and bothersome, to be frank and still functional.
Then, with the crushing force of crocadillian mandibles, you realize that the slightly blossoming bud will arise with or without manipulation. Simultaneously, as though making your way through the fog of an early morning disasterous encounter with what you only assume could be the March Hare, the secret snake coils himself into the tightest of balls, constricts, expires. With a hop and a brief shake of long ago scales, the crow takes flight, flying furious fast in a line straight away dead center to what was once an immense field of irreconciled childhood fantasies.
In other words, relax. The shit you fear will take care of itself.
Revelations, unbeknownst to me, like these sacriligous figures, pick me up and set me down. like the arm of a long fogotten record player. Until now, I'd been revolving slowly in this revelatory instance, while simultaneously attempting to catch my breath as a cat to a moth. I'm not entrirely convinced, though, that this revolving reccurance is any more revolutionary than the flight of the long awaited crow which picks you out of a crowd.
You, who had been so misguided, with shining eyes, shimmering skin and a look so delightfully melancholy as would make Poe blush in shame. This crow, having made your acquaintance long ago, has the uncanny ability to deliberately delineate your mostly fair-ish appearance.
A jingle, a jangle, a buzz and a whisper mark your coming. This is not, though, what this member of the pie, that mostly melancholic and murderous pastry, takes not of. After all, he is no Beethoven. He is no friend of St. Francis, he has no aspiration so high. This one introduces himself with a cantankerous look in his eye, that black remoreseless bead straight away from the stub of a beak. As you stand, taught and firm, draped in wardrobe befitting those delightfully despicable early Sunday speakers, you examine possible escape routes as the garbage eater hops steadily closer, no stealth in his movements.
Now silence rings out from the space beween the aviary actor and you. You notice, quickly the flower budding slowly to your left and the slow black snake emerging from the rubble of your revolving past, post mortem. Now, a conundrum. The snake, surely as his movements render others immobile, will no doubt attack the crow. It appears, of course, that this evolutionarily signified veloceraptor can take flight, but nothing is certain today. The sky is bright and full of a forboding sort of gesture. Perhaps this is why the bud caught your eye an instant before the serpent.
The question still remains; are these two, the bud and the crow, worth the movements of your sun across theis forboding fetid face of heaven? You most certainly have a vast, unmentionable heart. The query of the day is which? The serpentine antagonist against the aviary slum lord produces within you an entirely unreasonable amount of fear and angst. The small blushing bud, meanwhile delivers a dismal satisfaction, a bit of the old revolutionary reconaissance on your soul emits from the still hidden stamen.
To be on an isle such as you are is not envious. Neither means anything, yet both have possibilities for further explorations and both may prove passing putrid mud flaps on this steaming locomotive of existence. In essence, useless and bothersome, to be frank and still functional.
Then, with the crushing force of crocadillian mandibles, you realize that the slightly blossoming bud will arise with or without manipulation. Simultaneously, as though making your way through the fog of an early morning disasterous encounter with what you only assume could be the March Hare, the secret snake coils himself into the tightest of balls, constricts, expires. With a hop and a brief shake of long ago scales, the crow takes flight, flying furious fast in a line straight away dead center to what was once an immense field of irreconciled childhood fantasies.
In other words, relax. The shit you fear will take care of itself.