Modern Musings

there's cruelty in a beautiful day. something fleeting, something sinister, something that nags at your mind until the day is all but used up and you don't know, you don't know how beautiful it is, you don't realize, you can't, until the very next day sizzles like the desert sun and now you have an intrusive comparison. 

just picture your heart frying in its own grease on a flat top grill, sticking with crispy sparks until it's blackened and useless and smells like broken ribs feel. you let it simmer in its own filth because, why? you're too scared to do anything, to move it and rip it apart, so fragile and raw, but to leave it is to condemn it to a scalding, fiery hell that is hard to recover from. you quietly watch it, pink like a valentine, grey like the Berlin wall, brown like mud, black like the depths of a well where no one can ever see the end so they throw coins down it to be coy as if luck is abundant but buried and a small prayer, a mini wish, and dandelion kiss will bring us contentment on a silver platter, the platter reserved for a rich and medium rare heart, drenched with sweet nothings. 

the sun died today, it does everyday, and yet it always comes back. it rests, it cries, a cold bitter rain at night half obscured by darkness as the moon smartly recedes behind clouds, but the sun returns the next morning, amidst fog, frustrated, cold, but full by the afternoon. this is all it knows. it will return. 

a bruise is first a tender, newborn red, then slowly it darkens like our moods when our days end up the same until it is grotesque, a plum colored amalgamation of yellow and black like a child mixing finger-paints together all at once. is this love, or is this simply the passage of time. is everything spawned from everything-- like the galaxy reflected in a single iris or the ocean being mistaken for the sky--either way one falls and dies.