turning tides of isolation
Tugging down the gallows, a chef’s blade between the teeth and keenly lapping around the feet of the hungry. Half-awakened children forgetful from which doorway they came and into which hallways they will go pouring their trembling and worrisome years. A standoff with the sabre of a fretted man cowering to cover his ears until the rising voices give way to voluminous oceans or turn down into the trickle of a mountain weeping in gently going streams. Pull at the straps and slap the boots in place so one of us can climb up on out of here and write new letters. Letters set alight and thrown back to burn brightly among we here down in the hole. But no looking over, no turning the shoulder, no time for a glance backwards. We have the faces to suit us and those with fallen eyes ask an impossible hope for forgetting how many reached and reached before them. Only for each other can wretched lips cling. The dark leaves no place for their scared whispering and tenfold it thunders round and around. Swiftly goes the sabre for the fretful man’s ears are ringing in this forsaken fold. But busy yourself with brushing the dirt climbing your knees and let fresh and fated winds carry it on down the hole. And for your eyes goes a horizon stretching, wider and edgeless, so singing words can fly. Remember that down here there was never a slaughter raging enough to drown out your delight.
#writing #streamofconsciousness #schizophrenia #turning #tides #isolation #hope @ellowrites