No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
It begins with a splintering intersection of time and reality. The world shatters, seeks to cobweb, to consume the glass coffin that encases and confines. I inhale and hold and pray, but forget what I’m praying for? The sensation stalls like a pinched vein unable to release the life-giving blood within. But it hasn’t stopped. Not really.
They rise to the sky in shades deeper than the night, darker than my melancholy. Fragments of midnight, they consume the space between spaces, chew them and spit them out into obsidian cityscape. I observe them from my tenth-floor apartment – the highest aerie I could afford – and fill my vista with dark uncertainty. Outlined by infinity, bathed in the light spectral, the city’s building blocks stand aloft and not a single light shines. Not one.
Audio churned through my headphones like static in a washing machine. An ever-increasing banshee wail of unidentifiable nonsense, my hearing faced a sonic assault. I tapped one earpiece, then the other; an electronic scream for me to stop.