CREATIVE WRITING
When I stand, breezes of awareness twist around my body, and coming to conclusions quite silent, they move away and blow, blow, blow into the ether of the sky.
Suddenly, among the sheaves of wheat stands and bends, a scarecrow with some bravery, perched on his straw limbs. “You’re entering imagination!” he announces thinly. I may be, who can tell? Wrapped and packaged in their own self-love, the wheat blows by. The batches of humanoid puzzles, shuffle and flit via side-walks they temporarily inhabit. Love follows with no leash, she smells too many turds and wildflowers. Caught and exasperated in sensory tendrils, lost from the owner, half-and-half believing stern discipline is costly, at the same time being unreal and unworthy.
Gah! Dumb man of straw. Am I your keeper still? A whining elastic stream of blatant piercing cold light from the heavens, announces with no words that, here, I live in jangled spirits. It’s solely imagination, wheat, straw men with lives, and passers-by here and gone. They pay no heed. They gotta do what they ought, or want, or will within their own minutiae-framework. Makes perfect sense, none to me, whatsoever however.
My squinting vision still stings, when I look right into the gleaming light beam. A object identified, as a technological marvel I’ll only understand partly. It’s come to take me, away from this defeated race on the dying planet my kind has ruined.
Zooming up with the same discordant falling feeling, like into pits, off buildings or cliffs should I ever have some demon smother my will to live. Unimportant where, but somewhere tall has let me fall, so I recognise the sensation in reverse, then as, “woosh,” I leave the planet.
Hope you don’t miss me, human people. The place was haunted!
Today I trade ghosts for ET’s and nowhere shall remind me of the fantasies I had, for I burnt them all in dreams. False rumours, memories and acting out of character. That’s what little dreams can be made of and smother me in. Too close to home, and death, not a blasé topic. In all my cycles I’m still not so used, and the pain I wont complain about brings about torment!
Ah, human death, I leave you behind, cold, bloodied and blind beneath the burning ancient ones.
The Humble Rock Dove 