Do You Really Think the End Will Be that Obvious?

Hooded in sweatshirt overcast, cardboard box frays and spills out caramel specks to punctuate the close step saunter, leading from the refrigerator to the front porch. Blood showcases age based on the hue leaking in accordance to the curator’s transformation. Fall leaves break and resound like a throat gurgling pop-rocks and coke, missteps are accidental compassion, akin to a blind orator providing voice overs for a deaf theatre cast. Rain settles, loosens a moist fog which renovates flesh, taunting smooth appendages to rise up in rebellion. 


Concrete shoreline signals to the waves, 


Parents void of sexual authentication stand atop the barrier and look out on the lights of the city-scape reflecting in the teetering water. Their child approaches and stands between them, grabs their hands and asks to, “be swung like the current.” Behind them wind pushes an empty swing and its rusted hinges squeal like prepubescent laughter. The parents gaze at each other, look down at their child and smile and swing their arms!

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