No ratings.
Worlds are altered rather than destroyed.
-Democritus
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Once, we ran through mango orchards warm sweet juice drizzled down our legs as we climbed the falls of Dunn’s river and stumbled down the hill to see grandma popping corn, and dogs chasing me through the narrow streets, of a country bordered by the sea. Upon, new floors creaking with grandma’s small feet, brother and I play hide and seek in a state with three sides of sea. Our toy-littered beds become our hiding spot as we create stories to seek out the creatures that lurked within the Everglades. Doors lock with the fearful key of the new; the outside world turns into nothing more but yellow grass and rainy skies. A young me sweeps red paint across pages upon pages Of yellowing collages of newspaper clippings and portraits. Sitting at my easel, I scribe words in black That fades into the blinding orange shades of days That will never end, unless I take my hand away And throw blue and green paint into the gray picture outside. Time’s hands flicks away the blank sheets before us. As the green grass outside the window beckons us to come and play, as mangoes begin to age and floors no longer creak but sing epics of foreign grandmothers who no longer pop corn. |