Something had begun

After those days: when the hills licked upward jagged, to taste the airs, to hope, to push down there quelling—for even a slight moment in that garish romp of disappointments—they taste, serpent’s seeking blindly for future events, hoping that they might sense, wavering dully, shaking filaments in the sky--distant footsteps spreading a soft heat—they were not there.

After those days: The sky bares on like the widest scar, not relinquishing even one shilling of water—not even one blink of an appearance of cloud. The days role on, a kingdom of hissing rocks and bones desiccating into the earth, so desperately sparse of moister that it would seem that even a droplet of fog would revive it’s dust into being, into life queer and unsatisfying, but at least it would exist. After those days: nothing was everything; how unworthy seems a nothing against a something’s breast? If man is made from dust, and Earth God’s footstool, then it had been thoroughly dusted, and waxed to a pallid shine—no knickknacks, no clutter, but burnt beyond a place of death, crumbling past a place of anything, or breathe or twinkle.

But—After those days, and after those day: a gust of something seemed to at last whisk it out of being, chase away any trace of lingering agony that had haunted its sleep—one light—one droplet—one blink of cloud—something had begun.

FellowMan