SOD

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic


Sometimes I would lay on the ground under the trees, soil nestled between my nails and fingers. Twigs and dirt clinging to fabric like a cats fur, a mark edged into the crevices that can never be rinsed away. I imagine moving from the wood, into a concrete jungle. Imagine moving from dark soils, the pinecone and twig. The forest floor you can sink into like a hot tub of water after a strained evening. The dirt and salt that you rinse from your skin in a stream that nestles between the hills. The growing red algea on the rocky bottom, that turns the river red like blood in Autumn. It is simple and calm, like the dark candle lit walls of a cathedral, yet enchanted with the perfumed scent of soil and burning wood like a grave. I imagine moving, and not turning inside of my quiet coffin, but stuck inside a grave of hardened concrete. Oh, the dead shouldn't breathe through these fumes. Not when the cities brightness covers the stars like a wet cloud. I might sit on the hill at the edge, watching the glinting and glittering in the distance, entranced by the building, and watching like a drone. For me, it's only beautiful from the safe distance. I couldn't sit and think through the smoke, or talk to the blury faces of the unfamiliar. Their faces blend together, the colours of their clothes mixing like paint in water, their limbs bending and unwinding together, a little too unlike the movement of the woods in the wind. I would only stand apart in lethargy like a wet tissue, bogged in a sod of sob.


Submitted: March 27, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Flambe. All rights reserved.

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Comments

HJFURL

Beautiful , and quite unique!

Sat, March 27th, 2021 11:46am

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