by davidchrzanowski

A chrysalis of brushed gold molded for safe keeping; frozen in life. Unable to fulfill its quest amongst the longest of winters. Unclear and nuclear for eight months, the pregnancy lacking signs of wilting. Sunshine: uncompressed, audible, dry and not gated. A watering can, its head detached on a hammock; a heavy nook of grass and daisies weaved and inseparable like my unkempt beard. Why is it that in the hardest of times, humans and nature hike backwards to a state lacking in cleanliness? Why does it rain so excitedly in England, yet, so disastrously and infrequently in France? If we were still connected by that morsel leg of land, I wonder if we would still find ourselves under such vitriolic attack and lewd invasion; bawdy and indecent.