Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Deafening whispers rising from each strand. The cold has a voice that slices into nerves building tiny painful peaks. Scrawl relentlessly. That way one's sanity remains. The escape route is thorn-heavy, mold-melded doors growing outside eye-lines. Ink it down, add firm periods to lock them in. Let the nib tear through the page.Who cares? Let loose, they flap themselves to exhaustion against one's skull, banging into dusty windows (oh, if only one would break!) their ruthless claws will dig up hideous dreams, peck and carve a landscape of howls.
- Jeena Mary Chacko
Image: Screen cap from Hardwood Process (1996)