“Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air…”
—Emily Brontë, The Visionary
A young dove lies under the Maltese sun, an oxygen mask swallowing its beak; the colour of warning. A sudden hunger goes looking for the rustic panorama, hurtling along the wide embrace like a comet. Curried peas in their kelly skin shatter ships in the mug of night. The floor waltzes in its shining spread. An equinox attacks my light like a medicine man. My eye is a jellied sack, undescended. Its aniseed ball perceiving threats of leakage, just as a one-footed raven starts to trill.
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Thank you all for reading, and do leave your comments and thoughts below!
Stop following the beast^^