by Miss Kaye
Stream of consciousness.
|Without cease, without flow, without pause and minimal thought I write. Rushed and worried, as the skyline of a New York minute is red and fiery.
Slowing to a roll, I ask; I plead for the answer. Was Babylon ever so hard to express? Buildings and fire and water and sinners that were saints fall like scales from a sick fish, all shimmering and precious and beguiling like jewels, and liars too.
Now I’m seeing yellow, after the tears of inexpression have poisoned my tongue and paralyzed my mouth. Cotton. Graves.
Can you see what I’m saying?
It’s like I was born with a blanket. A thin sheet as fine and strong as spider’s silk secured across my talent. The same maker who gave me this need put the jail bars across.