a token

caution would love to laugh at spontaneity, but is too afraid.

the evenings haul themselves over the city, summertime has almost ended and i have to suffer the great slumbering body of night, shifting its hulk over the horizon and flattening out the heavens, denying day, darkness removes warmth, though; foresight and hope are difficult to maintain in the heat. chin into clothing, hands into pockets and suddenly that sickening, fulsome feeling, like death but quicker, warms my insides and makes my heart nauseous, it is the remembrance of loss and the execution of will, the reminder that i control nothing and the choice was not, will never be mine, a splintering of facades and convenient lies, all the false dawns i have ever made from paper and sticks, all of them.

in my pocket, a letter.

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One Response to “a token”

  1. This reads like a long exhale, or a dream of a scene — a dream in fast reverse. (Hmm. Then again, I’m starting to sound like a gypsy fortune teller. *grin*)

    Enjoyed the piece, especially the paragraph beginning with “the evenings haul…” (which, incidentally, reads like a prose poem to me. Loved it.)

    Cheers.

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