Flash-Fiction: Brushing Against The Wind

For as long as it takes, I brush against the wind, to free my heart’s desires.  When the rain falls at my feet, I will surrender my plight to the lion roaring in the night.  The tides rush up to my knees, and draw me into the realms of your fire.  However, the potion you offer doesn’t slide down as it should.  It gets stuck in neutral, when the foot is taken off of the pedal.  It’s truth is the mockery of my sanity, and it festers up closely as I say good night to all unholy vessels.

I sift through the margins when I’m overcome by disease of the soul.  For the fire burning inside of me is rampant.  I singe the very tips of your fingers when you fight my flames, but I shan’t be ignored along this walkway when the sparrow sings its lulling tears to sleep, in the deathly hours of remorse and grief.

Death is a song I sing to the echoing wind when I stand in peril on top of the highest mountain.  I’m heard only by myself where phantoms rise higher and higher from dark depths of the earth.  They reciprocate my song with their own haunting voices, allowing my heart to dance once more in your geyser burning my spirit.

For I hope the redness of your integrity is as raw as my heart.  I drift in and out of life with sanguine illusions dancing before my tired eyes.  The sandman has abandoned me, and sleep doesn’t come to me.  I slip further and further away from consciousness, as my illusions take over my mind.

I strip you of your rank to become the next holder of the blind hearth driven by the solstice, but never awaken to death when the flames get hotter and hotter inside this festering inferno I call home.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015


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