Morning

As the first dying leaf fell from it’s beloved branch, beneath a sky still ringing with the echoes of festivals and smiles, the heavens dimmed and it seemed they would never brighten the world again. The sounds of shoes upon pavement transformed into a sombre, melancholic parade band. Life, it appeared, was leaving for other shores. And in its wake nothing. No singing. No sex. No celebration. No embrace. No colour. No and no and no. The atmosphere became pregnant with a sour and unforgiving judgement. Failure reigned. Neighbours looked the other way and left bombs for alarm clocks. Children’s eyes skinned over and their mouths all jagged teeth in greedy gums. Family divorced family. People connected themselves to one another over empty airwaves, and felt satisfied that love had been adequately expressed. There were men in small rooms with little light. There were women screaming to be loved. There was a new dawn of war and no room left to care. Dirty feathers mingled with the empty containers; vessels that promised happiness, contentment and a sense of worth. Yet treachery had infected the bowels of the world. The faeces left in the street to sour into unimaginable, perhaps psychic, disease. Trolls lurked in gaps between gasps. When the night was not enough time to rest. When the car skidded upon liquefying corpses. When the beacons were lit but, eventually, all eyes had skinned over and no one was equipped to see. When underwear, ripped by demons and soiled by worse, hung from vacant windows. When all we had to say to each other was ‘Morning’.

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