On Doors & Chambers

Disclaimer: slightly haunting themes.

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There is that nauseating scent of decay. I reach my hand up

and switch on the stove fan. The night comes in flashes. One

crescent here, a quick jaunt in leather boots that brush and

scruff against the back of the ankles. The stars are luminous, but still

incredibly far. Pale dots in dark sky. At least the field stretches.

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The ink has dried on the recent stream of letters. Sometimes

courage is really courage towards a courageous good. Not

perfection, but an embodiment of it anyway. I am always

partly one foot, maybe a toe, in Athens. Okay, maybe the

whole body luxuriating in the sun’s expanse, how the lights

flickered near the ancient sites, setting them ablaze with

that infernal sort of beauty.

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It felt like an inner rising. I couldn’t tell time what to do

with its hands. There was peach-coloured bruises that

faded into blue. Dark speckles of fingers on bodies. Proof

that somebody had been there. Shrapnel and blood, further

proof somebody wouldn’t ever be coming home. Not here,

not like before.

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Burst tear ducts, water everywhere, thank god for small mercies.

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I considered the difference between a spiritual emergency and psychosis. I considered how synchronicities are meaningful coincidences. Eagle soaring through blue sky trapped in gold.