Bring your creative kindling to our campfire!
Contour and Consequence
Smoke, smoke, smoke. The man with the fire is a good man. I can hear the purple heat. It’s all curled and wavy like the sea. I wish I knew where the beacon had fallen. Maybe the man knows. He’s good, but not good enough to keep me away.
To have been born in the morning was a mistake. All I can remember is the rain on that day. It’s coming back. The rain. It was warm though. Or was the feeling of the saline? Of the IV?
I can feel something heavy in my chest. I believe it’s my heart and it’s full of memories that I can’t remember. Tuesday afternoon walks. The sun is good.
There is music. Where did the music come from? Perhaps it was the sigh.
I’m afraid. Not of the fact that I don’t remember, but of the fact that I can fear.
This is death.
At least I believe it is death. Are the memories and feelings mine? Or do they belong to all of us?
A girl. A poem. A bird.
Why is this what I took with me? And how long can I hold on to it?
Do I want to hold it?
Please. Just for a moment longer.
I can feel it slipping.
Down the hall
Of my consciousness.
Every contour and consequence of life
How wonderful and sad it would be
to make one last call