Decay

Withering colors, in carbonated yellows Rusted green and foaming white, Bubbling leftovers of humanistic pursuit. Rotten corpses of artistic benevolence lining the streets. The scrunched up flesh of unfinished stories, Discarded as fear that their imperfect toxicity might scar a pure white page, Just a bag of waste. Wasted potential Wasted time Waste

Sunlight days, memories Aching for a feeling We chase the butterflies in our stomachs, Across yellow lawns, Maybe we’ll catch those little bugs, And spend the whole night talking.

Desperately fluttering wings, a moth trapped between the window and the world. The rather ugly brown form pounding again and again, relentlessly trying to reach the light from the streetlamp just outside. I watch it with interest, merely intrigued by the futile struggle. Each time the little moth slams its tiring body against the glass … Continue reading