See the runners. Huddled and spendthrift, attired for the heat, mocked and made wretched by the rain. See the pandemonium of clouds, broiling around the smouldering mountain. See the lightning, splayed and dimmed behind its achromatic cover. Hear the thunder, elemental in its warning, unshrouding the pathetic ambitions of those forlorn and foolish huddled at the start line.
Climbed they did, up to where shape dissolved into a scattering of shadows. Spindly figures, outlines of no substance, each alone in wordless anguish, washed by the rain, absolved of all but their needless striving for an end.
And on they ran, crazed, driven by something primeval defying clined logic, reaching back to the obdurate essence of what we were. They ran because they had to and to do otherwise was a refutation of all that rendered them extant.
Like mud snared protean lifeforms spat from some subterranean sepulchre, splattered auguries of a sweaty despair.
And then it came to an end and all that was before terribly was suddenly delivered to the farthest realms of memory and all that was left was the exhausted now.
And the poison ivy. Sweet, scratching Jesus, the poison ivy.
Stop moaning and stay in bed - Colin
ReplyDeleteFair dues actually.... C
ReplyDeleteColin, I wish I could stay in bed but as you well know, demanding wife and child make this impossible.
ReplyDelete