Of Life and Death

Losing a loved one. The oft used sentence that hard boils your nerves.

From far across, as we sat, there seemed to be trembling in the winds, a breakaway from the transient dust that settled on our feet. We weren't friends, or inmates, we were brothers. If there was something between us, it was a numbing sense of belonging, the tautness of it living in our eyes like faith. Faith. A truant word that escapes my tongue every time I think of it. We were in shock, denial, and I could barely conceal this feeling of being in a beastly encampment, conjoined in this misery with him. The thought of him.

Rage is a slow sickness, political in its truest form, as it covers the unsaid and unleashes a manipulative and diabolic trite that gradually becomes an alternate self.

I still remember the time when she left me. The glistening shock of letting go of love flares up the most innocuous in state of being. In times ahead, I would fester a disaggregated selflessness coupled with degenerate love letting off a fatal stink.

Nothing could save me, they said. Not even humor.

"Would you like to pay me a visit among the flowers?". She looked at me like I was a memory, the one she didn't want.

Losing control is the hardest. The feeling of being trapped in a tawny body was at best met with a lettered release of troubled faith, optimism, words that failed sapience. I had a narrow, belittled smock of respect over my face.

When they found out and fired me, the disgrace of the system, and the vast unfairness exposed a sense of universality of conjecture about the whole matter to me.

..... (w.i.p- work in progress)