October, North Shore, 1929
I feel like the North shore, beaten & wind-worn, the slim edges faded into moldy tones of oblique. My skin is like the crusted lichen, painted with drear of Winter & a little too dry, crumbling at the touch of even a small bug.
I waste away, watching the sky shift & tide like the vast oceans, but my fingers can’t quite touch the waves, I cannot hear the roar—a silent movie.
I trip on down the stones, accepting the scratches like little kisses on my skin.
i’d prefer to write poetry
but instead, there is just this
hard heavy blackness—
of snow & damp & cold
of Winter that will not end
War by Edwin Starr Seems somewhat perfect for today…
great silences fall
& what you find beneath
is so much greater than
all that was before
That bittersweet moment when you realize one of your favourite bands is no longer going to play cute little venues & will sell out all their shows & they’re not your little gem of a find anymore.
Happened with Coldplay. Happened with Imagine Dragons. …and here we go again.