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I'm roaring towards the sun, in an aluminum bubble. My spirit, lacks wings, to fly but there's a spoiler, fitted, to the silvery minivan's frame. So, we drive down the day... coldly harmonious, as it glitters back, in mild flashes. Memory, is stagnant; flecks of it shine, back, at me-- capsules, of captured thought, suspended movement... the world, itself, becomes gelatinous. The park, where I almost-- the long-absent faces, of growing boys, and girls, concealing toothy monsters. Unsung heroes, and wandering bards... Freezing sidewalks, slanting homes... places I knew, so well; they stand, still, and appear to register no change, and no difference. Christ, with his pale, pinned arms, and pain-stricken face, gazes down, on all these sins a placid totem, on his marbled cross... an overgrown snowdrop, crying mildly, into polluted grasses, below. A sweet song, emits from surrounding speakers and it becomes tangled, in its own chords. It breaks, in my throat, like tinted glass... and suddenly, my eyes, are full, of flooding, unshed tears. Their sorrow, needles at sore, spent cheeks. The rain, which pinks, soft clay is hard, and salted, and as it beats down, onto my skin, I can feel the sunlight working its gentle, tumble-dry magic, and finessing them clean, again. I turn my face, away to stare out, silent, through the unbroken window. I'm sobbing, harder, now, and I have no idea, how I started... or why, it won't stop... but still, the rain, rolls down shaky gutters; unrepentant, and unrepressed. The wild weeds, of the garden, are well-fed, indeed yet overwatered, beneath leaky clouds, and graying seams.
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Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 6:46 AM UTC
[Roaring towards the sun]
I'm roaring towards the sun, in an aluminum bubble. My spirit, lacks wings, to fly but there's a spoiler, fitted, to the silvery minivan's frame. So, we drive down the day... coldly harmonious, as it glitters back, in mild flashes. Memory, is stagnant; flecks of it shine, back, at me-- capsules, of captured thought, suspended movement... the world, itself, becomes gelatinous. The park, where I almost-- the long-absent faces, of growing boys, and girls, concealing toothy monsters. Unsung heroes, and wandering bards... Freezing sidewalks, slanting homes... places I knew, so well; they stand, still, and appear to register no change, and no difference. Christ, with his pale, pinned arms, and pain-stricken face, gazes down, on all these sins a placid totem, on his marbled cross... an overgrown snowdrop, crying mildly, into polluted grasses, below. A sweet song, emits from surrounding speakers and it becomes tangled, in its own chords. It breaks, in my throat, like tinted glass... and suddenly, my eyes, are full, of flooding, unshed tears. Their sorrow, needles at sore, spent cheeks. The rain, which pinks, soft clay is hard, and salted, and as it beats down, onto my skin, I can feel the sunlight working its gentle, tumble-dry magic, and finessing them clean, again. I turn my face, away to stare out, silent, through the unbroken window. I'm sobbing, harder, now, and I have no idea, how I started... or why, it won't stop... but still, the rain, rolls down shaky gutters; unrepentant, and unrepressed. The wild weeds, of the garden, are well-fed, indeed yet overwatered, beneath leaky clouds, and graying seams.
I am not religious; the depiction of Christ is purely observational. Please don't use my comment section to preach or sermonize, thank you.
#time#memory#random#thought#religion#aging#personal#misc#other
disastrophe
Written by
disastrophe
AP Kate-the-Shrew
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 6:46 AM UTC
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