When It Rains, It Abhors

The coos have ceased. The feathers forego any more fluttering. Birds have suddenly stopped appearing when you're near. This carrier pigeon carries nothing but the carpe diem of carrion. Carry on, carcass.

The interstitial space of the shadows weave between the wooden whispers and wailings to cut silhouettes that surmise the dry, cracking truth of the hour. That commerce is fleeting. Consuming thoughtlessly will leave you permanently hungry and spiritually famished. It's a life left unpalatable, says these pallets.

Enough months go by and even the urban debris starts to get snarky. This sardonic door gets it. It's well-hinged against the absurdities of the day. A wounded Willy Loman-like character going door to door getting more dour and dour.

The door ajar. The desperation quiet.

It's an ominous ode. Someone attempted to put some elbow grease into it. And with every good intention endeavored to wipe clean the slate and start anew maybe. Doesn't that have a promising ring to it? Let's rub away the damnable dismay. With a soapy mix of tomorrow and hope.

Wring in the New Year.