Each moment is a certain truth whose definition is free of the apocryphal elements of everyday business, where efficacy for masks prevails. Masks are for strong hands and weak souls and I’ve no use for that now.
My lungs weep silently, with the patina in my eyes its only evidence. Old photographs visit my diminished brain, dressing it with scenes that flutter and perish like June bugs in summer. Mortality becomes leaven as the chill in my bones becomes more ambitious and the silhouettes of the living give way to the company of spirits.
The dark is my last breath.
A big thank you very much goes out to Tara Roberts at Thin Spiral Notebook. Her 100 word prompts have become a favorite writers task of mine and I am much obliged to the multi-talented task mistress for her rhymes and reasons. Go check out her blog, it’s wonderful.