The Seasons Fail (A Broken Clock, A Burning Chronology)Mature

I write, as if there was wind in my wrists; not because the end is near, but because time begins soon… like sand within the hourglass my bones churn and writhe between precious, and most fragile moments of glass.


I am your ideal heaven”

Screams the deadliest of angels, a forlorn moment between dead trees, seas and heavens. Oceans and skies crack like tides upon bulkheads, the sky rips open, with the spindling legs, temporary balance to the storm.

Snow pours like Christmas is late, the river drowns speckles, whilst from my veins, the breeze snaps shut the azure vessel in my heart. Time begins rapidly like hope knows no tomorrow.


Stutte(ring) like an engagement to mumbling.


A world of ashes arises”


The old man struggled to open his wrists with the razor, so deep that January began pouring out in a dark midnight apocalypse.

Old man time stirred chaos with his toothpick, and under jaundice skies, his herd of field cotton laments, jumping tiresome fences sending insomniacs to narcotic nightmares,


Hopes are wishful dreams, yet unmade”


He spoke in the tongue of the devil through a wasp’s eye.

And the currents of time weave gold through each piece of broken shards of hair of notes too tight to hold open flesh for the moths.

Celluloid affections settle deep in the programmed mind of the destined children. The hour glass through which I seep, tumbles and spirals like a broken ball of fire, into the melting snow, as if winter was never there.

The sun rose and pricked mother nature with the venom of vibrant warmth, we held close, swords and roses, and sang like mirages –


The sun fails to rise, and in decadence, we spawn broken moths”


The melody died and we welcomed spring.


I write like a malfunction, broken flowers, flee with an epiphany of something more likely than sunspots, There is nothing like a dead moth beating the ground, once its in, nothing matters, once its dead, then sunlight shatters, They whisper like copses entombed. Pandemonium of shrines, tortured like butterflies.

Sunspots in a faithless sky, besides a darkened brides groom,


 No questions why?”


He asked.

January the sixteenth bears the devils name, hells logistics bound to departure.

Tears of separation gave Mohegan its lake…


I just suffered the end of a dream”


I cried like banshees defeated


With haste we send passengers like the morning fire”


Sang spring’s host.

And in broken moments of song across the expanse we discover we are just one defect short of heaven, and when the stars unite in the fetal home, the womb bleeds starlight, and my daughter is born, like broken feathers we move, colliding in wind.

Mascara bleeds from my mouth, and oblivion denotes safety and all my love.

Cellular structure holds close the wind.


Come, let us hang like cinematic orchids, burn like wasps bound in parcels of skin”

The sun flares up like summer intrigued, tensions sprawl as wilting retreats in favor of birth and spring, the moon screams with each rose its beam.

Stars fall like wounds bathed in broken shards of chrysanthemums and silver spoke,

Like fragmented Autumn winds.


Release darkened spores into antique heroes, we denounce winter with rocks.”

And he wore gifts of words never seen before like worlds of cracking tattoos, he spoke once more


“Should the seasons fail, should clocks break, and chronologies burn, who shall save history and eternity doused in stars? Not I.”

The End

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