It would have been a beautiful baby.
by @wordsalwayshurt
Never have I seen so many pentagrams.
Hung silver, some in coarse thread.
Thread still thin but not thinning.
The wind blows.
The pentagrams stay steady.
Never wavering or moving as an ocean.
Seductive stillness yet to be determined if satisfying.
The cross above the suburbs is tangible. Yet the willows fold, bend and move in unholy patterns and manners.
My eyes close.
A moment ago they were open and burning, forgotten realms.
A love affair with fantasy.
From the prairie's apathy, the infirm stand strong on the jagged mountain.
Sagging skin flaps over the husks.
Weather the gusts.
And the time it takes to say for certain.
Their numbers fall with every grumble from the wet and shiny harbor.
Miles above, the delta beckons.
Farther below the road is beginning.
With its paralyses.
And it's warnings of approaching excellence.
A pile of soil collected daily.
The farmers rub their square white teeth in confusion.
The universe with nothing beyond.
When she thinks of death, she is sad.
There is pride knowing there is no ever after, there is nothing after.
I am sad.
During the panel, words of observable importance betray her and flee.
Betrayal found with the black mask, the semiautomatic fire and the only man who could make her cum.
The singularity is denser now.
Collapsing as memories of the father spark the misplaced tinder.
They echo along her breasts and fall as the residue pools in her panties.
Finding helixes without the tools to measure them.
Speaking little of anything.