Conspiracy – a reblog from Thotpurge

Wish I’d written that…

THOTPURGE

I’m hearing confessions this morning, from the wind, from
the shifty eyed moon. The wind is ugly when it breaks, falling

like inside-out balloons that have run out of breath, the moon
is liquid in denial, quicksilver tears searing the endless night.

It is their conspiracy, isn’t it? Their fault? What changed the
way things were supposed to be? What alters the coefficient

of morning blue? What crimps the arch of the horizon? What
makes the bees hum in a strange language? I could question

the universe, but we’ve been here before. You can predict the
answer if you can connect all the dots. If you can find all the

points. If you know where to look. If you know where not to
look. We impale our human pain on cardboard skies. We rub

our yesterdays with numb fingers till they never were, collect
rain in the cupped palms of…

View original post 26 more words

About Nan Mykel

At 79, I was just about to stop keeping a journal, but that felt like accepting that growth was finished. I don't want to be finished, yet! I'm 80 now, and struggling to communicate with you, if you'll come and set awhile. P.S. My how time flies! I'm 82 now.
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