more than a grave

Cold wind whips the tattered leaves through the air. It’s only a matter of time until they crumble to organic dust and become lost in wind that lingers on metal street lights wrapped in plastic greenery and tiny bulbs that illuminate a street of otherwise decomposed memories of the light, encased in an icy fossil. The streetlight with the single purple fixtured light blinks, fading in and out, illuminating the only suggestion of existing surroundings in it’s solitude. Suddenly, it could all be laying on it’s side in the milliseconds in which the fixture burns itself out, and by the time it gathers enough energy to illuminate again, the scene could return to what it projects itself to be to one, but there may be minor details that are not perceived and therefore not preserved. Only for the light to burn itself out again, in a vicious cycle- like a poet on the verge of the perfect metaphor that will never be perfect enough in their conscious existence; like a thought that gets stuck in your teeth and no matter how many times your tongue scrapes into the wedges of your molars and blood drips down your throat you’ll never retrieve it; like the painter who seeks to perfect mapping the veins of a hand or the angle at which the sky bends to create a section for the dark sun to pierce the bare branches of the trees, but the results always resemble a frame that has been hung at the slightest angle- but the more it is straightened out, the more it seems to mock your attention to detail and temptation to give into accepting the perceived tilt so that one must live the rest of their life feeling a weight in their brain tugging them ever so slightly to the right, like a rock glued to the inside of the temporal plate of the skull that tugs you closer and closer towards the ground; the ground where the snow will fall and freeze, sparkling in street lamp dimness, where the skin will rot off bone, and bone will be dug to transform the ground to more than a plot, but a grave.