RAINBOW VODKA

paracosm

there's an angel carved from the richest of woods residing in the weaker parts of my brain.

i've nurtured it enough to flow along with the luminescent rivers of what make up the galaxy of my psyche, chipped it enough for it to bear a resemblance to someone i've never met but have poured out my entire (fabricated) soul to, and yet it still hasn't grown tired of the existence it has to uphold. hasn't sprouted from the seeds on the milky way hill where the grass is greener and breathing is a sought out art. its rivals have attempted to climb its peak during intervals of musings, plaguing every crevice of a mundane mind but truly flaring in real(time) colours.

it should've been buried a long, long, time ago, i'm sorry. it's rooted in the soil of my skeleton like limbs crashing in an absence of bones and muscles and all that you witness is a slain constellation begging to be put back across the skies. like an abyssal void has been found on my tongue, and the devils are prepared to lose my temple's compass to free my mouth of evil (there's no irony here). it's easier to embrace the virtue of forever when you don't live a life of blissful and painful eternity, therefore you build nests of broken reveries and cosmos where you can be salvaged for every breath you fail.

but these very wooden souls have me drunk on winged bodies fleeing from land to land, and i think they want to stay.

(i'm the sculptor with ashen hands, holding a chisel to begin new pages.)

so i carve.

02/03/20, 9:51 pm