Ambushed carcasses strewn in pulpy ceilings of orange dust curtail the haziness of framed seasons that combust under maddening duress of blistering emotions.
Time has been truncated into nuanced displays of human endowment that has formed the strings of mayhem, serving as ragged connectors of the sinking underworld.
Formative dancers from long ago were established in caves, brightened by the delight of primal talk with scribblings of positions of sun and moon in the sky.
Close enough to touch the passing clouds that shed to splatter into streams that bathe rocks, and give land tonal language of love; that was the soundtrack of livable periods, shifting into seeable fog when lazy afternoons finally emerge.
The measurement of intervention can be calculated into power cells that converge to uproot manna from softest of hands, that gave greenery the message to sprout into God’s open kingdom.
Journeys to settlements of water and oil that breed simplicity into darkness and poke into discarded steel with inventive permission, became the schedule of imminent clauses that had to be broken.
And so the wailing of ocean beds that deposit drowning shapes into the shells that open wide for resistance is the sign of the heavens above, beckoning for the chance to stop screaming.
The noise is loud enough to drown the pleasure of soggy days with thunderous applause for the wreckage we have wrought.
Fire pits are boiling over with the sham of neutrality that echoes forgotten promises that can’t be served reminders in the ashes of demonic eruptions.
It has begun.
The tear-stained air is dueling for the placement of catastrophic yielding in the swathes of blistering beddings, that will give bodies the earthly burial that gods will bathe in the negligence of furrowed graves.
No matter the pained embrace of hapless onlookers into the views of no tomorrows.
We still can’t stop the fiery world from drowning in tears.