the yearling roasted on the spit its drippings crackled the fire huddled in a smoky closed space family with a neighbour, or two bags packed, shoes on, ready to go
the meat carefully carved its skeleton intact, unbroken with endives rolled in flatbread unleavened as we had no time meal's remains destroyed in the fire
we're ready to leave at any moment from where we're born and always lived to a place known only from ancient tales outside, shrieks and wails, of horror and utter terror inside, goosebumped, hair standing, we waited, in silence
Three Scottish hags brew up a political storm in a...cauldron.
Inspired by Suri Ben N who got me overthinking about brevity, Shakespeare, alternative storylines, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the existential milieu in general.
‘We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.’ - Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
Slips of time, Stolen by, The frustrating cry of empty space. Just 3 words, just 3 breaks, The clock ticks by, I see your face. Skin for every pocketed minute, A strand of hair for each delayed train, A minute here, A minute there, An hour lost in anywhere. Slips of time, Stolen by, A friend from a better place. You're with me always in places I refuse to see, Teaching me to tune a better melody.