dotism

Sweet Nothing

January 22, 2017

The child stumbles and it was none who noticed, with crimson forming at the knee, and from dark lines the desperation spreads while flushed tears are choked back into their place. It had never felt quite right then—that saddened and upended Then—and then again It had never felt more so than now.

The swing set creaks in a tired, anguished rhythm—too and fro it goes—an empty seat from where a child had so recently fallen in a heap upon the concrete, a soothed reassurance topples from its place as the most monstrous of Mistruths said—and the child knew it then from down there where he lay, he knew it then just as surely as he did that face.

That place exists much like a picnic in a postcard, a nearby tree sighs as it witnesses another lie whispered with comforted tones—‘There, there’—and there crimson rushes to the cheeks of the child, the ground the object of an unwavering stare as specks are spoken into ears broken—and then it was doomed to have begun, the beginning of what was to bring the poor thing to where it now sits mislaid, tears forming in corners, manifestations constrained by the simple dismissal of a life worn and greyed.

No. 138

No. 136

January 22, 2017

No. 136

No. 135

January 22, 2017

No. 135

No. 134

January 21, 2017

No. 134

No. 133

January 21, 2017

No. 133

No. 132

January 20, 2017

No. 132

No. 131

January 20, 2017

No. 131

No. 130

January 18, 2017

No. 130

No. 129

January 18, 2017

No. 129

No. 128

January 17, 2017

No. 128

No. 127

January 17, 2017

No. 127

No. 126

January 17, 2017

No. 126