It comes like pollen, a lost bee on a single airplane engine perforating the air, with tainted zest of a pistil of a flower. It soon finds its way into my soul, through the internodes, leaving the leaves paralyzed from the waist down. The aroma piles up like a test engine, the aircraft fume rolling my overworked nostrils, a treat I long not to inhale. I delight on not wanting its drive to handicap my will, the thirst to submit my wagon into despair. I yearn to impede its way into my glory, decapitating the losen broken branches with a fury of a poisonous frog and yet, the butterflies manage to find their way up, crawling like intoxicated caterpillars at the sound of the church bell.
They say the water is fresh but it tastes like lava.
Like an orange flame in the sky, torture souls in the ground.
It is a water fountain at the edge of the road, cars and people going by and no one saying hi.
It cries intoxicatingly, bleeding profusely for a clean bed, a beautiful skirt, a clean underwear but no one cares.
Stinky feet marching through like soldiers in the battlefield, livid daylight testimonials piercing through book pages like a salad on the menu, rocks giving it a purpose to live.
Shut up they utter, anguish dribbling in her face we see, dry tears dripping through yesterday’s scars for today’s newspaper is heard on the loud speaker.
It bleeds still, I see it, you see it, they see it but no one seems to care.
I know, I can’t seem to stop the train from rolling through the water fountain but He can
©️ Angela Aguiar
The little bird on the corner urged me to run away to a far away land where the sand doesn’t know the beach and the beach doesn’t know the warm water, create a new cocoon of a make believe world of butterflies where I alone can kiss the ground the Lord has built.
I briefly contemplated the trip but He firmly raised His opposition, standoffishly rejecting the idea, saying loud and clear, the map had been traced, the red carpet laid out, to drive elsewhere.
I kept thinking, if I were to run away anywhere, I would still find maggots scattered like pumpkin seeds, old beat up Cadillacs with scrapped tags, fruit flies with colorful tenderloins of many promises. So, came party time, the flowers were in the patio, the keys on the table and the door opened.
I chose to Walk. Live. Breathe. decadently whispering like the most gorgeous bird striking a pose on her way down south instead. The world never tells you the story, the book does!
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