There is a coldness which has lodged itself between my shoulder blades.
Colourless and characterless.
Like a stone.
Its presence is only felt by the absence of emotion.
It’s heavy, solid, burdensome, painful.
Not a sharp pain any longer, not for now. Not for these minutes.
The month of May was made up of 28 black moons.
There are bones in a far away land. A castle mourning with a dreadful moan. She rattles and shivers, an abandoned carcass.
Dried up skin, overstretched, under loved.
We march to the slow beat of a Leonard Cohen song, monotone, sad.
In the sky, dull filament imitates light where once there was a sun.
The plants stand stupidly, without meaning. They sigh with a familiar boredom.
A stone is lodged between my shoulder blades. Cold and silent.
Cold and silent