Tension accompanies the wail, which does not last long when hanging, a somber and tarnished ornament, from the tree, before falling a season or two too soon. Difficult to hang on with all that weight, that heavy sorrow.
A noise from yonder. I told you someone or something is out there. Find out who lives out there. A stake-out, a sit-and-wait, or a brushfire if you must, but find out.
One light explosion, one charge at a time. One seasoned from battle might know how to describe these low detonations across the field-at-night. The tension is tenacious, there ‘til the end, looking down at puny. Tension waits for more eely grief.
When in sorrow, while the slight bleeding recedes in the backflow, the blue industrial carpet is comforting. I’ve made a worn down path to call my own, a shortcut to the fish shop. Anemone, clams and neon fish in neon waters temper my soul.
Is the light playing tricks on fish skin? I jostle the tank to find out. Flecks of wreckage whirl in the water. They ask me to leave, politely.
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