About An Ending

A penchant for the anomalous always led him to stray places beyond walls and fences made abound secrets many carry.

Like that time a stranger poured their soul unto his lap, on a cab to another township internment; he found it unnervingly obscene that horrors of so many a men could find an ear upon his head.

He was told once that there are birds that never land; he never understood, only that perhaps when death catches their flight, only then would they come plummeting towards earth in a rush of euphoric stupor.

At such intervals of conversing therapeutically to a broken unknown, he often feel like that bird, weary to the bone, hoping dust and stone would pull it face down to bite earth violently.

Another year’s day was beginning a decade of decadence, many reveling in a storm that seems virtual than real.

The rapturous torrents on this morning are Noahigian, a deluge of mud creeping along darkly streets bearing a politely horrid silence at dawn.

Clouds cupping more rain, and as we walked he recalled the thread of his story as we disembarked from a riddled ride on a dilapidated taxi, facing a township sleeping its demons and joys, masked in calm near-dead faces.

Such mornings always bore an ominous air of funeral days, so it felt strange when he told me a tale of his grandmother’s death.

The story he told went as follows:

Why is the elegant always disappointing?

For how elegant is a trial by fire in forests burning antelopes for fuel?

This wrinkling dream going up in smoke and embers of a time of taciturn orgies and lead brains consumed for profit -

What of your horses circling you in times of an angry earth, fuming and confused by rage and a splendid acceptance of an inevitable end?

I saw my daughter dancing in a whirlwind beyond my grasp, a time when metal sheets cut through debris that flew with birds that were clothes with memories.

Praying with their silent kin, many were distraught and could not find a study of a land that was their final league.

Those who stuttered truths were slewn and many fell silent in an aftermath of bloodbaths and sabbaticals.

As lightning strikes digital over hymns of flood-stricken villagers, we marveled at oblivious games of urchins in the rain that spelled doom.

The earth stayed in orbit until night, and many who flew off were awaiting corpses like satellites and dreamers, who could not return.

But they all were here, derelict and dreaming that we could find children; the final proof that we existed, before sin and pleasure clouded our vision.

He fumbled with thoughts as we waded the streams on potholed contribution of a road by authorities elected though blood and coin.

“The past has become an enemy, and humanity’s twin faces collide and collapse into the thin skin of mirror present with its undead misdeeds.