Old Thought

Laid to sleep by the lilting of the ocean; birds cry and fly in the salty air, yet no land is to be seen.  A faint whisper of a dream dances behind closed eyes; a bow gently is drawn upon spider-web strings.  Many eight-legged bodies can be felt quietly crawling over each other in a silent dance.

The moon rises and casts its delicate light from the horizon; the soft drumming of a heartbeat undulates in a firm rhythm.  The faces of lost loves rise and sink with the waves; a chain of rapture and disappointment.

A spectre floating on subconscious introspection speaks ancient secrets in susurrations.  Gray hairs slowly replace color, and lines are etched by concatenation.  A smoky bouquet is breathed into the nares; embers of failed resolutions burning to cold ash in the mind's eye.


[22:11|23.3.013] ©c.thom