Her screaming is driving me beyond that fevered edge, that sweat stain boundary between raw unrequited angst and controls loss.
Between her screams and those soulful moans, she pants.
Fast shallow panting much like Ginger after she was run down in the street and then as she lay there while the Vet administered that final shot. No
Vaccine that time, or perhaps only inoculation against life.
Another long ululating cry renders submissive both thought and theory. It compels complicity. Complicit nature led to this moment, an event series
shaped by emoting and it’s accompanying ennui.
Contortion claims her face, mocks her innocent beauty and shapes the very air with decibel and volume.
I would trade place with her if I could, but I could never protect her from this. Fate has it’s way with us all, and in it’s own time.
Only chaotic systems permit accident, to hell with order and symmetry. The only symmetry I claim, are the equal and perfect contours of her, the
curvatures that snared sense and sensibility.
She’s panting again as I’m remembering, reminiscing, playing imagination movies on the inside of my clenched eyelids. All of our days are counted
against a backdrop of expectation and realism. We enact scenes that have played always, and always somehow perceptually claimed as new, and
Her screams this time are joined by another voice, a much higher octave wailing accompanies her cry.
So progressive, so sustaining, so dutiful.
The doctor raises our lotto win high and beaming states...”it’s a goy”.
edit on 7-9-2019 by YouSir because: I so desired...
edit on 7-9-2019 by YouSir because: Durn copy paste...