The fields are burning. Close the curtains. It’s caught hold of the old farmhouse next door, and the barn, too. Close the curtains. It’s those winds that ride down the hills, they brought it here, too close to home. Too close to Grandpa’s orchard, to Mother’s prize vegetable patch, to baby Jack’s tiny grave in the family plot. The sky is an illusion behind black smoke. The fireman beckons in his bright yellow coat, but I will not leave. Hope is blinding. Close the curtains.
***Management Note: Great use of repetition. You said a lot in just a few words.***
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
~The Bright Side by Ann Walters~
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6 comments:
You are a dark cloud trapped in a single synapse, the angry grit of unspent grief on nerve fibers. Maybe you are the unremembered memory, the clipped thread.
Still, after years since when I couldn't count, I carry you forward with me. The fiery coal-dark ember of terror that never lights into awareness.
The truth is the hardest thing to say. I am always fearful of the implications of me saying what is deepest and most honest.
What if they don't like me? What if they get mad? What if this alienates me from those I think I love?
What if I find out I don't care if they like me? What if I find out if I don't like them? What if I don't give a flying f**k if they get mad. What if I want to alienate them!
What if my rage is so great that it consumes me in a cloud of smoke?
When the dust settles, maybe my soul will be born.
I told the kids that if they hit each other one more time in the car my head would blow up.
Nobody ever believes me when I say these things, but then I have always been extraordinary. Usually I keep my superpowers under control, but some days. Some days.
Thank you both! I like how the picture prompt can send us all in such different directions.
Rion- thank YOU for providing the space and inspiration.
And my gurl Jess is in da house- yes!
Those cheese nips, those cheesenips!
The Bright Side
The fields are burning. Close the curtains. It’s caught hold of the old farmhouse next door, and the barn, too. Close the curtains. It’s those winds that ride down the hills, they brought it here, too close to home. Too close to Grandpa’s orchard, to Mother’s prize vegetable patch, to baby Jack’s tiny grave in the family plot. The sky is an illusion behind black smoke. The fireman beckons in his bright yellow coat, but I will not leave. Hope is blinding. Close the curtains.
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