Weariness trails like a shadow only bloomed against the tint of moonlight that has blossomed through the crack of the window. The breeze lifted and found itself wailing across the window, urging for its premiere. The opening, a gentle grace that would flourish. Uncover the dust, consumed in its cloud. Carry upon the deeds and misfortunes that plague like black soldier flies in a fuming compost pile. Remains on their way to shit. The cycle repeats over and over until Earth is replenished, renewed. Rejuvenation upon the crust. A sentiment and process much more difficult than the off-brand anti-aging cream hoping to lift the necks of those that bow their head down in the aisle.
The shadow traveled all where the misfortunes and deeds were to be found. Looming. Crowding the corner. The pile of clothes that stare back at 3am, only to offer a chill and one grabs the remote for another distraction while the breeze turns to gust and wails against the window. Seeking travelers. Those to converse to consciousness that entreats every morning when one is too sick to even make the morning pot of coffee. Stilled by sunlight. Chasing. Illuminated even by the light. To justify those empty dark corners, and offer density.
If you close your eyes, and squish your toes a little deeper in the carpet. Into the mud. So deep, your heels are scratched by the sand. Any surface, any texture. One would find themselves deafened by this gust. The only sound left to hear. The gust, until the shadow turns its brim and your passenger has found its friend.
petrichor - archive 