literature

Nowisthewinterofourdiscontent

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Literature Text

I weep, I despair.  This season ever upon me.  This chill, dull winter a thing which shall never end.  Have summers come to pass?  I see them not.  Caught.  Always.  Pearls in a net, tears in a veil, sparkling.  Cool to the touch.  How surreal, that this should ever melt into days of breeze, sun on legs, green on the ground, dust in the air.  It lies still, dead, waiting.  This unbearable cold.   Halting all life, all growth, all changes.  My lungs fill with shades of open grey and blue, oxygen transformed to liquid light through a window, like filtered vision.
These hours pass as minutes, the slow moving hands of a clock a prison I can never escape.  I would push my fingers through this fabric to feel the threads cling as I rip through, touches against the skin long numbed to mercy, pleading for a chance to remain whole.  Cobwebs are all that remain.  And still they remain.
This place is not my home.  I range far and wide, a free bird, an outstretched sky, hands grasping for nothing, holding the world, mud as it oozes thick and gritty.  Shape me, like putty, for I am none.  Hollowed spirits surround; a coating as thick as paint, as thin as rain, my tongue shapes names, for which there are no words, a rough sound.
In these dark corners, I press myself until my spine conforms, until I am as solid, and hard as the wood around me.  Flesh gives, but life does not.  Why must I still breathe?  The sounds of my lungs are appalling, a mucus filled bellows.   It rings false to my ears, this pseudo life, this half-life aglow in my veins.
Touch the stars, for they are ever on my mind.  Spots of light chaotic.  Astral tableaus of once and forever glory.  Dance in my blind spots, across the canvas of creation.  The world quakes for your beauty, for a simple step.  How anticipation can rule so many hearts...  Anticipation ruins hearts.
Crawling along the paths of my bones, among my muscles, my tissues, it burrows deep.  This twisting wreckage is eternal.  Feelings are fleeting, but surety is forever.
I plead the fifth.
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