The caked sutures of inked sky strained to breaking yesterday. Something peeked through the cracks. Some awesome thing who’s beating unseated my nerves and forced my cadence like a familiar stranger walking by my side.
If I could divine why God's workmanship has aged so poorly my greatest fear probably wouldn't be opening Vanity Fair to find it sterile of cologne ads.
In the bellows of a four hundred year old pipe organ I knew saints rendered in lead and sand wouldn’t save me, no matter how much light gushed through their martyr wounds.
Something slashed my bare ankle between the pews when I knelt. The thought crossed my mind... could a mother made of knives show love without turning her boy into toothpicked cubed meat ideal for serving parties of 8-15.
It's difficult to tell exactly what it is that taps on the hardwood- talon or droplet -since the light in the back most rows is composed mostly of dust and shadow.
I peered down my shirt this afternoon and two blonde haired blue eyes blinked up where I’m sure my gut was supposed to be. Something tried to jump out of my skin, but I don’t think it was me.
There must not have been many angels in God's sweatshop that second day. The fabric is really going to shit. I’m not sure the darkness between the stars isn’t something's dried stain from where the fraying edges of the wounded quilt were stapled shut... twice.
The thought occurred to me over dinner, when something tried to sit down across the table from me and succeeded in dashing the chair to the floor like a game of pick up sticks, Monday's reputation is undeserved.
It's the Sunday's I look forward to the least.
