dotism

Tudiculation

A birdhouse standing out amongst a standing of spindly trees.

Beside a pond, it begins. The corpse of a bumblebee beneath a flowering clover, perhaps a poisoning by prosperity’s petty pluck. Over there a fortunate head had become undone, a scene replete with legs bent horribly. The shrillness of cicadas emanates from tranquil treetops—these witnesses—their shriek a winsome reminder that winter remains something faraway. The joy of its hesitation allowing for a certain serenity, yet it remains as little more than the folly of procrastination.

Alongside a pond with a trying book, each page reread a dozen times. The voices resonate and vibrate like pestilence, fields strewn with a reverberating plague. Wait feverishly for a minute more or less, for it will surely pass like pyrexia echoing in the night. An insatiable hunger like something clawing, never quelled. Now found pushing through the resounding pressure as it drapes, like clouds—this shroud.

That adorable pond abandoned, like an ugly child left behind. How desperately it is missed, these terrible reminiscences. A traipsing escape to the still vacancy of a cell, this freest of imprisonments. Continuously they come like waves of vexation, these loathsome vociferations. Deny them and they multiply, ignore them and they become implored. An opalescent insect makes its way warily along a balcony rail, like a beautiful visitor bearing the perfect gift of an ardor shared betwixt.