Inspired by Florence + The Machine.
Wind knocks the Earth,
Like a heavy hand,
In an array of bird feathers and salt.
All perpendicular to this axis
(A display it is known for.)
It then shoots the leaves,
Into the throats of old men
Until they suffer quickly and die,
And all aged die.
Sun splashes its colour on sleepy sands,
Like a hairy brush,
Brighter and hungrier.
Stretching until it blinds,
Its enraged heat begins to roam,
Turning their backs to black,
And their souls to smoke.
Their screams become a yellow substance that quickly fades into dust and a whisper and a careless stroke.
Made by an unknown hand,
On the canvass of retardation.
Where my eyes sit,
But I stay adrift, still.
amidst the music,
Of dissenting waves.
A lone parachute of parts,
Channeling the multitudes who
Had died with me.
Sauntering our spirits in the Ocean's thickness.
Letting the waves embrace our souls in the heavy confusion
The reflections reflecting nothing but our flawed emancipations.
Like the weighty ghosts of pirates that try to make conversation, as if running from their own company.
The exodus beams in the eyes of sunken ships,
Bony and weary.
Like songs that have lost their hold on tongue.Decorated for the end of things.
And History bends at its calves like swollen gums,
Cavities in cacophonous chapters,
Upon the seabeds that refuse to accept our exhaustion like kisses.
But martyrs must be martyrs.
And rest does not belong to us.