There is reluctance in her being, as she sets the sheets, this eve; from what or whom, I cannot say, just that her reluctance is plain to see. I motion toward her, but to no avail, she flinches, and moves along the table; with her timid hands moving flail, as she moves along, afraid and unstable. I ask aloud, to catch each soul, at the table by surprise, it was then she said, she’s worried […]
The irony was lost to him, of complaining of polluted skies, when the remains of burning plant matter left his lungs. You are the victim and the perpetrator, to the crimes that you cry wolf to. You are the God of your own anguish, Mothered by pain, and your reluctance to change. Fathered by the passing of time, that makes you realize– your own mortality.