Parched Leaves

When the car breaks down, the world caves in from every direction and you are left at the roadside waiting for the train to go by. You want to scream, fly, run but you fail miserably at the breaks. Not strong enough, they say. So, you keep pushing, waiting for the veil to drop.

You look over and the world is sitting still. The drum is still beating. The circle in your eyes, still puffy. The moon and the stars in formation, winking at you. 

You hear the music but Beethoven it isn’t, so you try to switch to another channel but the symphonic notes still playing the same old tunes. You yell at whoever. You are heard, so you think, responses coming in small packages and yet, you are left wondering about a parachute. You try to spin, flip the page, blow it harder but the recipe is written in stone, No Carbon Copies Allowed. Perhaps, the new pastry chef will add a new dish to the menu but it is not about the cookie dough but the wind, blowing.

Death it isn’t, hell it is but the moutain, although steep, still up for the challange; we are climbing it. Looking straight at the screen below, the music man reads the story on today’s newspaper, outloud. It is dark and storming out the weatherman says but sunshine and bright skies tomorrow.


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