Gazing from afar, just near enough to taste the sulfur that clings to each lung in a diseased clump, the land aims to morph in a grotesque means. Here our path winds to and fro, lost between its many folds and blank canvases. Veiled by a curtain of green velvet carefully swathed over its jagged tips, a city sits patiently. Frayed and forgotten, it waits, but what for, its innocence cannot justify. After being pierced through its deep crimson heart by a Volcanic spire, the city remains pinned to the life it sings to remember. It remains somehow distanced, lost in a pensive thought, wading through a bottomless sea in search of an end. Even a serrated blade could not cut the bonds that mend the two. On a calm day, when the wind is passive and doesn't bite, you can hear the torn melodies from a city that continues to forget, a city waiting for nothing in particular.
No comments:
Post a Comment