burn all the same

by Lucia W (@manuscriptsburnnot)

Freedom would mean the absence of a flinch when the church bells toll at six and twelve. Marks the days that come and go whimsically a park bench sits with the worn grooves of initials etched into its behind. The bustle is far too rowdy for ever-present psithurism to be audible. Dissonance may be strident but ephemerally ethereal. Sands slip through fingers like well-oiled organ stops and pervasive holy smoke with clinking chain accompaniment. dry is the bread suspended from the roof of an arid mouth swallowed whole, acrid bile rising like dough. Heavy are the upturned hands that cradle the unleavened, heavier still is the heart that pulses in blasphemous syncopation. Palms cold with sweat soften, melting in warm ones: there is still time before they strike three times two tenuto. Better to count for the space in between beats.

Lucia is still that kid with her head buried in a book, now with the addition of headphones. When not reading or writing, she's busy looking at cute cat content on her feed.