Away afar a faintly glimmering star is all that you may know of a king who courted your dark angles in rings of a limitless sky. When the umbrella of sparks flushed your shimmering eyes, the waves of constraint flashed deep consensus cries. I grasp the thin friction burning metal wire, pulling for you and losing. There is a phonetic deep cloud crisp with the thick dark oil blackness enthralled in a combined emptiness that penetrates the circling forces around you. We tap dance on the edge of torment with unconscious blow darts, where rose petals open with moisture in the wind. The winds ripping to pieces all the reserve you ever defended and the thorns holding you in place tempting you to move against them. Gleaming in the depths of your eyes the fire burns, your dark angles rise.
About the Creator
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson2 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.