I can feel the rot in my body starting. I’ve been sedentary too long today, and I know it will only spread to my lungs. The branches I see from my window strike a stick-thin silhouette against the white sky. I belong with them—spindly and rooted. It would take far too much effort now to uproot myself and shake off this creeping mold and make something of myself today. I am ballast. I am corroded. I am a heavy stasis. A tree rarely falls unless some force unearths it, and no such force is coming for me. I settle deeper into the decaying sediment of myself.
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Cecile Randall
Rose-tinted diarist
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Orichalcum
I bike past an old man every day as I return from work. He is always in the same park. He plays a trumpet, sitting proper and alone in his sunlit spotlight, for a crowd of none (save for the pigeons, and me). I always pedal slower to hear. I want to run my knuckles over its brass spine and see if my fingers remember what my mind does not. I want to remember the feel of cold metal against my lips, the tightening of my chest as I hollow my lungs of air. I want to remember the sweet sound it made under my touch. His orichalc notes ring nostalgically throughout this dappled meadow, and I think, how strange, to hear an art I once created myself. How beautiful. How terrible.
By Cecile Randall2 months ago in Poets
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