Day 134: (Bad) The Worst Thing I’ve Ever Written

The sun gazed down up the earth with a gust of wind shaking the trees from their foundation.  I am remised by the Sanskrit of time’s door opening up and welcoming into the pilot light where the fire starts at the very core of existence.

I measure the ways of all the elements burning before my very eyes, with the acceptance of all illusory bequeathed by the sum of the matter I brush against when walking down a deserted highway on a muggy night.

Dressed in the robes of vengeance, the sour taste left in my mouth after the bitterness wines dried up, leaves a foul scent in the air.  I’m overcome by the ambiance of amber graves standing on their pedestal.  I’m woven into the grail the tides weep for me; however, I dance in the hour of the passing moon when the fires are lit in tempered magnitude foreshadowing my existence, and life left by the fetes.

I am in allowance of all wholeness of your measure, if only you’ll come forth to speak truths instead of folly burning up your soul.  Ignited each beam of light with heavenly light, instead of the magnitude feeding of your spirit.  Only you shall be heaved into delight of the moons caressing works aglow.

Eat up candy forlorn by the steeds who melt their tears into the desert sands.  I am anguished by your faulty wires sending electric shockwaves down my spine.  My mind cannot continue consuming each melody with eagerness.

Am I to walk through darkened tunnels with exasperation, when all I can see are hallucinations shaking down my spirit, and withering my soul with every step I take.

For in the platitude of light is the arching bridge withholding every body of stars whose light is dying out, and slowing fading away into nothingness.

Dominica rises from her bed, heads into the bathroom, and washes the sleep from her eyes.  Looking into the mirror, she’s sees only the ghost of who she used to be.  Her past pales in comparison to the hours beholding her.

There are faint lines upon her forehead for the first time.  They weren’t there the night before.  “I have grown old before my time,” she muttered to herself, as she continued to stare at her own reflection.

Grabbing a towel from the rack, she pat her entire face, allowing it to drink up the moisture time left behind in the essence of longing for something greater that what lie before her eyes.

Walking down the hall, she passes enters the dining room, passes by the living room, and enters the kitchen to make herself a cup of green tea to open her senses to the morning.

Upon entering the living room, she sets up her computer and goes straight to work on her latest writing composition, putting together the pieces of her broken past with images created by her words.

Sunlight cuts through her windowpane, creating an uncomfortable warmth from its prickling heat.

Arising from the sofa, she walks over to the door, opens it, allowing coolness of the air to kiss the flesh on her face, as she breaths in nature’s sweet scents.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015

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