Monday, June 25, 2007


The opposite of flowers is blood. The humming of a thousand dragonflies drew near. I saw the distant figure of a man approaching, but he never came close. Everywhere the silhouettes of frightened but silent birds weaved patterns on the hard, cracked earth.

Even from the distance I knew he was a man of carefully chosen wars. Prone to false alarms and easily startled because he was really a child with undue sensitivity.

Then the dragonflies devoured a field of ripe pears. They flicked maliciously and abundance dwindled until there was nothing left but carcasses and a lingering scent of aged sweetness.

Above, the clouds were thick as smoke and choked the air. Strange light came from nowhere. I was in a land of alien sorrows.

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