Ache

The wisps of smoke were beautiful in their own right, rising above the tall fibreglass intricacies, and curling to make rings and patterns against the grey puffs of cloud. I walked between them, monstrous and stained, like a smudged painting that moved from side to side slowly, in the heat. Gases rose up from the very ground, forcing and hissing its way between cracks in the soiled earth, to free itself from its tomb below. They tried to bury it, to rid themselves of it, but it had plans of its own. It made its way now across the painted landscape, an oozing tube of black, marring the pristine colours they had so wanted to preserve. They loved to make dark colours.. They just didn't want to see them splattered across their artwork, making ugly the walls. Made of mud and air, and things taken from both, the painting was spoiled, they knew. So they began making more black paint, to try and rub out the old blotches, rubbing it in carefully, tongue in cheek. It was a picture of Earth, on God's wall, so tattered that he should perhaps take it down for good. And I as I walked between the thick lines of paint, hoping it didn't spoil my shoes, I remembered the picture in its early days, all the bright colours and sparkles, like Christmas glitter. And I ached for a more breathable air.