at the close

the first image is a dream, is a story, is the grief you let grow like so much grass every year you age. the first dream is a song you see inside a fossil you broke open to feel the soft cool red meat inside. the first song is dried meat from the beginning of time staining your fingers as you hoarded your useless treasures. did you know then, eating dirt and sunshine in equal measure, that every summer would begin with the dream of three red walls, a blindness so purple you think first that it is only a bruise, and a hunger for life too indecent for one living? picture this. picture that first playground you never revisited. picture your first cruelties. picture the first time you learnt the secret of sitting still, your eyes unfocused, your mind wandering. turn away. diminished, indigent as you are, you were not meant for small talk. you were not meant for fire and tenacity. flicker, shimmer, haze through things that come. a story's hardly a picture. all tyrannies shall end if you only let the wandering begin. all tyrannies shall end because summer is coming. all tyrannies shall end.