A little poetry from a poetic story.... I often dream of storms, perhaps since I was born which is mostly a question of a priori. As goes the story, the age of four bears the earliest memory. Six tornadoes twisted and snaked across the hills, without scream or shrill but, just a silent focus, menacing zeal, too fake for reality, like an old film yet, way too real. Our own house, or rather trailer, failed to impress imagination. We found escape next to a snakes den, waiting for the sun to break in. Light seems ancient versus this monotony of overcast dominating my unconscious hypocrisy. As my optics see the snakelike tornadoes fading off the scene, my gaze drops to the rocks beneath—the snakes in their den mocking me.
Posted on: Sat, 24 Aug 2013 19:53:02 +0000
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