The man with a deer head speaks to the water bird whose voice is bright like sun through leaves. They sit beside the shrine which smells of sandal wood and lavender while an offensive bat shrieks to them, yet they turn the other way. The deer head man shows his skull cracks to the bird, they helped him through the birth canal, during birth of course. The day is pretty okay, quite pleasant like a slice chilled air. A pine cone sits tilted too. It listens in the breeze. It won't tell the weather to the others, it never does. Too bad, soon it will rain again.
I could die here.
It could be better, but it's not that bad. I could die here, one day.
Dying Men In The Square
The octopus's tentacles laps at silver in the mines like the tongue of a dog on water.
The land changes and the people follow.
The men of beauty, rage, and death go to the square donning smart regalia.
Two yell in the center as the crowd watches. The men kneel and remove the cloth from their carefully cultivated bodies.
The lean arms unsheath blades and pierce strong stomachs, blood pours and pools under slumped forms.
The people cry or shake their heads as they turn to go home under orange and red skies.
The octopus remains.
In the warm black sea I floated, awake and aware. I could not move and I could not speak but I could listen. Slowly, the fibers of the futon replaced the warm dry waters of that sea and my finger twitched. In tongues he spoke, like a cat he sat.
The ideal, the buzzword, the lie. The rallying thought for which far too many die.