Whence

[For 3WW]

At the edge of control, what taunts us is not whatever is on the other side, but how inevitable the crossing over and the looking back are.

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What the sun had sought all year, mother nature chose to gift it today.

It was a sunny day. Bees hummed about the flowers, water caressed and fed gently the malnourished bed of the river. The sun ambled about between the clouds, enjoying the view, looking over all things earthen with a razor sharp vision.
  
Except that all things earthen did not contain any humans. Whatever wiped the humans out chose to spare the rest of living beings. So the lion whose roar rang around the world, the flora whose fragrance intoxicated the air, the trees whose branches seem to grip each other in a show of strength - the sun could hear, smell and see clearly all of these.

Mother nature had kept her promise. In one great swoop, she cleared earth of all the clutter, all those fleshed ones who could think but alas, chose to think only of themselves.

Seam

Dirges do not accompany these dead,

heads immersed in madness lay down the laws

- draws open wide their eyes and holds them apart,

depart not, drift not apart - where the wails have gone?

- Don black instead, indulge in sullen stares at the sky above.

Doves come by and grip the dead's floating tress,

bless-ed winged ones prefer to fly off decaying spawls,

caul shadows over October's shallow seam,

gleam like stars across a sky hooded in grey,

stay, stay - a few lingering clouds call by,

try, ignore and fly back over the white lane,

lanes with no trails to guide,

glide in silence over these lands too painful to rest,

rest not, lest the thread come apart.

Irresolution

[The entry for this week's 3WW prompt. Thanks to Teal for helping out with the editing]

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Everywhere, I see shapes grimace

into punctuation marks.


Tear shaped pauses I spot here:

raised ones curving along the spines of dogs asleep on the road;

inverted ones drifting along the cheeks of

a four year old.


Full, solid stops a few are - fraying at the edges,

disintegrating;


wrinkling, white surfaces console

me on a bright night;


singed ones,

letting out phantasmal shapes in the dark,

offer quick fixes.


Sidebar legend:

lemon green marks strangers;

ashen ones hide those we seek.

---

Today, I misread the print:

'the universe likes to grow forever';

grow into what I ask ?

---

Here, we await a punctuation

at the corners,

stumbling towards it

in the made up darkness of our streets,

ready to believe tombstones will

hold us up to light,

phase out the wrecks in us at last,

and relieve us of our monochromatic breath.


But surprised we are, when our

souls boomerang to life after death.

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