| Contemporary child of senses, beast of sensuality lost in a driven throne kitchen of ecstasy. Laughing smiling skipping and hopping the days away. She decided it was not okay. To be alone, beautifully alone, green and shining or dry and cracked, it did not matter. Loosened, lost in form, powdered like stars in a baby's eyes, grins of a madman's blind fight. Lost and found again. Once again and over and under, smoldering, in wait, patiently, smoky stares fixed on shadow walls. She did not feel free at all, except on Wednesdays. Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go. Far far away from here, from there, from herself and them. Even from leaks, as Kilgore Trout might say. Or bugs on the wall or bugs in your eyes. Time to smile or you'll lose the prize. First dibs for everyone! Stumble and crawl until the race is done. Amen. |