Nb: this is not about me. It is my feelings though.
In the day.
It’s spring. They come out at night. Flowering.
The hate from them is like pollen. Like a stench of the past. Because it is death.
Watching these ducklings on the lake I can’t help it. Towering.
Above us it sits. The useless skyline. Technology can’t do it. It’s just keeping a sense of the real life. Clever it was meant.
Those ducklings are happy. Quacking along. Mother keeping them in toe. I think of how many more springs that are coming for me. Cowering.
These nights. These days. The mostly white flowers here are to some pure. Really they are a lot of metaphors. Lies. Pretty lies in my mind. Lament.
In the night.
Is that night? A little sky full of stars? The ducklings are asleep in my hands. Mother on my lap. How can I keep them safe? From the dark? From the monsters? Questions.
I feed the mouth. This visceral tooth holding flesh attached to me. Sickness in. I’m not going to be hear next spring. I can hear the monsters in my mind. They are close. So close. They. Can try and eat me. But I fight. For my ducklings. For their mother. I’m going to be here as long as I can. For as many of the best things.
The night. I know they are scratching me as I sleep. I see the scars. I smell them on my clothes. My ducking share safe. Their mother is safe. I will probably eat something more soon. Better food. They will play again. On the lakes surface. Never know that they are on the surface of my mind. Reflecting what is good. Those blessed things.
The sun.
The morning.
I’m alive still. Monsters gone. How much longer? I’m going to find out. I’m going to know. The ducklings will they miss me? I’m not sure. Even when I’m dead I’m sure to miss them. Like a bells ring.
The Enigma Garden 