Sour Crayons

My hands are tree-minded twigs twiddling wooden thumbs; pencil-fingers scratching pulpy paper pushing letters single-file into lingual constructs;

I am revisiting recurring childhood dreams; thoughts of stone tumbling themselves shiny and sleek; oils of voices tranquil and frictionless, reflecting rainbows when mixed with the water of conversation; rivers of synergy flooding behind dams.

Now I live with disconnection and disassociation dripping into every relationship, dull or sharp; cutting vocal cords to make room for audio wires carefully wrapped in swirling curls.

I taste memories of sour crayons, their colors defining their savory sting. Chew on this stubble; strewn about, leaving a small trace of visions of a time long before now; living tales of ancestry linking steps in a spiraling ladder defining each individual.

And now, with the exception of purpose, and the denial of the sun, we make our farewells.

[23:09|12.9.011] ©c.thomas.carter