Wild beauty.
Holy island.
My only life.
Hearts are full of hurt, in the gloaming we rejoice with those who rejoice and we mourn with those who mourn. Our hanging lanterns look like barbaric glowing pearls, beauty could be love, rabid fireflies over our ocean, the God of flies is among them.
A wild cat with green apple peels, sharp fangs, broken milk jars, the echoes of painted flames, pumpkin spice, an abandoned strawberry, sleepy drench and emptied paradise, the last Lioness sent out among them.
Cloud of melancholy, slow, methodical storms crawling over our purple countryside like a forecast of busted grapes, old Montreal, a Swiss Chalet along the river and red bellied fish, the abstract plague and vicious white terrace mist within the skeletons of rotten barns and debris, no breath among them.
A foreign and feline bird, ever-lasting vernal blooms, pine straw castles and a basket of kittens, an unpierced silence over the grave, the sea inside, tree full of bees, our inky light, childish amusements and dolorous rain, the dead and dying bugs and their splotchy war-paint come home to nothing, baleful angels standing in the dissolving dusk, wet bricks steps, unbearable and cruel hazel lynx eyes, feel her smile, She is among you now.