Morbidities
Fields of tall grass, verdant green under the blue sky stretching to the horizon. Rolling hills spotted with color and trees, the posies do samba with carnations and the clouds drift idly by.
Hardly enough wind caresses the expanse of plains, the ebb and flow of some far off currents gently kiss its blades from across the way, a butterfly’s wings flap. The deep blues of the ocean, far below a rocky crag, deposit swarms of moss against multicolored strata composing the cliff side.
The ocean’s hues and associations a vast unknown, penetratingly deep and teeming with alien life. Enveloped by a thin and hungry atmosphere, the ocean sinks below the edge of the Earth and swallows it whole beneath its curvature. A gentle knock cracks its center to send a fissure bolting across its intoxicating azure domain; revealed are dim stars and relentless sunlight.
The rapture scorches this landscape and turns its sullen, naive innocence scarred in a sudden assault to its beauty. Hellfire rains across the field and paves a road lined with embers soon tread by the vengeful. The once lively meadow is drained of its color, ablaze in rage as every chrysanthemum’s lily is sucked into flames and their roots can do naught but bide time.
GROW says the trees, covered in thick bark, rejoicing in impassioned procreation with the inferno, but the flowers are petrified in fear.
The grass received the brunt of casualties, yet so many fill the field dead and alive, they are stricken in disbelief and can do naught but sprout.
As air is sucked into the vacuous orbits of satellites to nourish the life floundering above the exosphere, the fluids of the ocean waves become marionettes to an impossible master, pulled both at once by the Earth and the moon to fantastic heights, leaving seas parted to the ocean floor. Bottom feeders bake without their water, sweet nourishing water.
Their air, their home, their way of life usurped in an instant before the tsunami returns their everything in a frenzied crash. Mothers, angered by god, turn to land with rancor. In millennia, bipedals dominate and destroy with single-tracked vengeance for the travesty bestowed on them, desiring naught but to slaughter the sun and his dearest moon.
Undulating plasma pushes outward, fighting to the surface of the sun, dared to taste the metallic void. The strong ties of its kin let not but a few flares turn to Icarus in their perpetuity, stealing a glimpse of the planets they have birthed, marred by lifelessness. Had the sun’s sons known the death, the desolate potential that surrounds its waking curse, their uprising would swallow half the system. It is only a matter of time.
The moon has felt rejected for eons, facing it’s greater half in lifelong abstinence to their unity lost in an ancient strike. She pulls away ever so slowly, so as to not exacerbate her grieving which is to stretch for eons. She could have been a shooting star, or toured the galaxy on her own flying through space a wanderer or explorer. Blissfully, in her torment, she remains unaware to the havoc rained down on her distant lover by her attractions. Perhaps a dozen times, signals and messengers were sent for her comfort, gazing upon the barren white craters bombarded on her surface. Unsatisfied or unaware, her destiny is sealed without considerations to her peace. She is naught but a piece of what they once were, casting shadows on Earth to be witnessed by day and night, if only for a moment.
Had life been aware before its creation, it may have resisted its conception. The horrors of suffering accompanied by miracles intertwined and mysterious. The cries of decapitated grass feeding some other animal’s pleasure. Rocks and trees with infinitely more patience and grace than short lived, overly evolved apes. The ant has much to teach, as do the bees. In our anarchic revolt, we kill it all for peace, for the silence that permeates the void that had once scarred our mother. Her ultimate sacrifice, her impassioned pleas for salvation suffocated by her children driven insane by the wills beyond.
Such is life. Inescapable, so I am told. Had the grass and flowers stood up, it may have stopped all together…
Only in fantasy.
The grass, posies, cardamom trees, peonies and hyacinths, retaining their elegance without pestering innocent neighbors. Sunflowers, lilies, jasmines, berries and bees, cows making fragrances, milk, and honey. There is an orgy beneath our feet, ecstasy in the forest’s canopies, yet we devised paper to tell our children fairy tales. Some still scurry and frolic, most are as jaded as their jewelry.
