In Hyena-Dark, Alone.
Princess Diana was beauty. Or Princess Diana was clad in beauty. The frozen in flames, ambered kind of timeless youth. So was my brother. A retard, entrapped at a certain age. Except that being buried, his existence was exploded. Torn apart into million pieces, and minced flesh and gore is what remains of his youth, and sure, a piece of his coat, our address sewn over it. I always used to think death was an abstraction: something soothing, calm, like a sea after a storm, or the sea bed, unaffected, indifferent to any touching of the azure wires of the harp above. But, oh, grief is my thought, and the ugly granite facts.
author’s own haiku —
my Icarus bursts
like a frail soap bubble. my
private rainbow’s pale.
This prose is part of the Hands in Haibun project. Please create a haiku to go with this prose to make it a haibun. Visit the guideline post for more.
This prose has been completed with haikus in the following posts:
