Bloody Trail of Glory

Through the fields around us came a tiny sparkle. It drew rings on some murky water and left a strange taste in my mouth. An absurd feeling. They called it a recession and I didn’t even like it!

Swing by and let the rest be done by the robot ants walking over from across the river; an entirely different city there, with a different mindset. If you set your mind to it.

No, that telephone will never ring. Not anymore. Tales from a different past tell stories of how people used to walk over wires, from heart to heart, through nights. Even when it rained. But it’s all decay now.

Perhaps that dagger cut should run from my heart to yours? Because then at least there would be a feeling instead of numbness. Like lightning. Yet as it is, it is a blood cocoon in dark tones because no lamp reaches its inside, so the bourbon colour remains hidden to our eyes.

But we can keep the sun outside. It’s not too hard to do. Standing on the grass, we realise that the leaves are knives and the bark is made of the ashes of cremated versions of ourselves that we left behind in a teenage genocide many years ago.

And then the sweet realisation in the moment when we assume that the skulls on which we have been standing are in fact made of cotton candy. Their everlasting sweetness on our dear parched lips.