A message in a bottle--
writing crawls across the paper like pulsating veins;
a secret bottled up like a spirit that alters the mind,
corked with a dream, a hope, a desperation.
a facade of strength decoded in whimsy,
made with the crumbling shards of rock
that were no match for the ocean.
a world inside of a world, like goldfish in a jar.
We poke and prod and pretend we are gods
while they swim for their lives, floating in oblivion.
A garden of souls tumbles on the waves,
collecting in the graveyard of rocks,
where seaweed drags across the art of gods.
like a god that patiently watches,
silently needing help, and hoping
not to get trampled by humanity.
scrape across the sky;
a thinning patience, and
those who see without doing.
invisible, but determined to be heard;
a calming nuisance that
sticks its nose in everything.
The waves roll by in a whoosh,
like a winded runner.
The sun screams in delight,
like a child shoveling sand.
Like a seagull hovering over the shore,
humanity passively hopes for a crumb of salvation,
easily found in the path of destruction.
Unlike the waves that work for it,
seaweed travels only to trip over
grainy remains that once stood strong.
I had nothing to chase but broken dreams which is why I ended up here.
Sometimes the only thing some people know how to do is fall and they fall hard. We always feel our weight as we plummet, feeling heavier as the air rushes past. We wait until the weight we carry crushes us at the end. Only, the landing is soft: a cool Unforeseen cradled my fall; disappointment caught up to my shoulders in no time, but the strange feeling of curiosity carried it.
The unknown is chilling, never warm or welcoming. The icy obscurity followed with empty footsteps, constantly tapping my cold shoulder with uncertainty. Life is never easy here, but it is whimsically terrifying. The type of terror that keeps one foot in front of the other as we search for the light at the end of the tunnel--though we are in a vast empty space, full of breathy echoes and resounding second-thoughts.
Any hint of confidence is swept away with the currents of counter-clockwise thinking.
Welcome to the Rabbit Hole... for what it's worth.
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