Dissemination

Such a strange thing to think about, isn’t it?  The pinpoint and gargantuan formations of cumulus, tinged a silvery-orange from the rays of a setting sun, suspended under the sky of black and blue, bringing the apocalypse with every don’t speak to me ventilation. It seems to be quiet, patient, standing and drawing where others dare not, to face waters rippling over their faces, and subtly faded and forgotten, until they too are a fresh puddle of an untended mountain path. Because that’s the way life should be lived, gone and misrepresented, to the bleakly shimmering gold of discovery, as they reap and fly to the nearest dissection, the hoard of temple ruins overgrown by the loneliness and startling moss. I wonder, of course, how many times they have been spoken of, saying where is the watch the mournings of its selfless gaze, and carries the noble sack that it prides itself on. In a way, this is uncouth, yet elder than all, for it takes a weathered soul so lacking in education that may find themselves trapped beneath a collapsing gate. It is an act of indecency, yet strong-willed, that they choose to remain there, watching the sunrises pass and go, then one day to just wisp away, leaving with it only the slightest scent of burning. It leaves flames, so subtle, so unabstained, that you might find them anywhere, in the vase, under the rug, all you had to is ask. Such that is born from the green light, the headstrong detachment that is but the natural pattern, is so unnatural, so strange, that nightmares have been born of it, the soothing pulses of meadows clenched between the iron teeth of some great beast, a metallic being that they had been chasing run away run away that entire season until the autumn leaves fell and they crumbled, pinballing into an abandoned factory. Looking around, all they see are machines, tending and destroy the works of its muted people, a collection of rust and vacancy crank out of their systems and they deliver themselves to a higher age. Where might the higher age be? One may ask, but the answer is too simple, effortless, like pegasi giving up feathers through the blasting wind. It has always, and will continue to be, the sundering beacon in the sky, the glaring that makes us blind to so much, and yet to so little. Indeed, when they stand at the middle of the hail, seeing the enchantment protecting and dancing around them all this time, there is a breakdown, and they finally bring enlightenment to the marbles they have left to play around, and the pitiful coins that they may still enjoy its twinkle.

The wooden cupboards close slowly, and with a thundering creak.

And so I think that’s the trend without doubt I piece; that has ensued with us for the many millennia to come. After all, without strife, what would there be but efficacy?