The Wooden Breath

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
It never dies, it never speaks, it never wanders on feet, it lingers in the air, with the leaves, whispering in its own self-assured doubt.

Submitted: July 17, 2016

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Submitted: July 17, 2016

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The clouds were rumbling, crippling and purring out sickles of blood. It rained quite often in Versa, the town where the man, the lonesome man lay quiet in the woods, in a bed of wooden planks, surrounded by trees that smelled of liquid trees. The outside lands were of mold, bold with screaming greens, and laughing oaks. With plenty to eat, the meat of the dirt that was pounded ,with flesh from the events of his two hands, the gun’s bullet shattered the skins, it stretched the bones, ripped the inner being of one’s beast, that escaped. With the tip of his finger, a source of gem colored light appeared atop of it, like a clown’s mysterious eyes, it hurdled in a spin of saber, a sphere, sharp and crooked. Why does he speak to this bird, one breath in time had scampered upon him, as he hid in the retreat of brush, and he laid with the lifeless being.  Once the pet’s neck had pecked, its bill had been chipping away at some nuts in the moistness. Now even more lush, the waves of water alluding from the stranger’s curiousness. He lifted the bird, with a simple touch, and a glow, a pain in his gut, served from an itch of lingering sorrow, the bird awakened, its heart beat against his furry chest. Its wings were bright, not covered in muck. A kiss, he announced it to the others in the far fair sky.


© Copyright 2017 John Langley. All rights reserved.

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