Tightly Braided

Posted: February 7, 2015 in Uncategorized

Oh morning. O mourning. The eyes of hedges and gloomy grey nimbus watch over us, over her, as she lays the flowers in the grass. Life cut short to celebrate life cut short. The flowers did not scream out, did not voice their regrets or the things they had not the chance to do. Or perhaps they did, and they were drowned out by the sobbing tears, of the customer, of the florist, exchanging the economy of time lost to mark the finality of itself. The clock bears no flowers, only the cold, rectangular, obeliskian hands. They remind us that time is not concerned with us. Not with our flourishes, our wishes, the idle thoughts of romance and a young girl’s skipping heart in the eyes of a strong, handsome man. Time only cares for its own end, the progression in ones. Time will kill us all to get where it is going.


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