Tuesday’s Child is not full of grace.
(She should have been born on a Wednesday, she said).
The circus of people is full of hate and venom, today the weather is blustery with a chance of light rain showers. 12 degrees, supposedly. Yet when my blood runs cold in my veins the temperature drops. A funeral is not fun, black tie and mourning. The natural order of life drip drip drips away.
While you were letting your guard down, I was rotting, not glowing.
If I created this world it fits that it is raining, as it should, as it is meant to. No place for sunshine and fairies here. My heart is as dark as my roots and metaphors choke me. Time has no definitive line and it swirls around and bites me when my eyes are closed, even briefly.
If I could drive time backwards and start again, I don’t know if I would, she said; but if is a loaded word that means everything and nothing at once. There’s a power in the words, there’s power in the words I say, and from this point forth the world will burn. The dying lights are testament to forgotten sunrises.
If you show me no soul then you give me no reason to keep trying, then again, I have so very little of my own soul that I’m here, parasitically living from yours (theirs).
The windows are cracking and I’m sat here watching the world fall apart.