Float.

Apollo’s rage yet scars the world. Thousands suffer, wilt and die, scorched stalks in a dying wheat field, and yet I know he’s not the one to blame.

Electric wind (poorly) mimics Persephone’s breath over my skin. Rest is recalcitrant.

I’d normally dance with Dionysus — beyond the singular nightly taste — but that tempts the Fates in these melting days.

Damp suffocation, restless stickiness, disturbed dreams, fog, fog and fog.

May the thunderstorm convention assemble soon.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s