I
just read a piece on despair, as a clock makes rounds—it seemed to miss each
point.
I
don’t have a monopoly on the richness of despair—the gripping wrench, the
wretched stride, the withering soul. I just look to sea-monsters in faraway
blues, listening to another agency.
the
egret sits in stillness where the tar is black while we search for evidence
against facts: the charm of falling closer, the anxiety of the gnats, the
blackness of its beauty when walking into disconnection.
each
lake a potential threat. it builds into celestial regions.
eating
gossamer—or baking despair—or being careful during its season. drinking cocoa,
buttering pies, so sober, somber, and delicate. ghosts appearing—struck by
words, each element has an attachment—to some gift, something spectacular, the
father died in the line of duty.
the
gorgeous plague, too much to carry, the majesty of mental health. given a feeling.
ropes in souls. fire in angst.
