Contemplation, Self-Reflection

the stone

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.
Endless darkness.

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

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