The sudden betrayal was a drought in the veins of the Arc of Himalayan; it was protruding as it swayed in the motion of sweltering heat of the Sahara Desert that drummed up the disguise of your remorse, that had many recanting their narrative.
By the time we sat on the hilltop of Table Mountain, we were purging the intense inoculations that invaded our bodies at will. We contested and screamed on top of our lungs, asking for forgiveness to nature, for abandoning our hearts, mind, body, and soul in search of acceptance.
An acceptance that warranted the fiscal awareness of the lions that invalidated the human existence with their presence.
While many drowned in the misery of the ocean floor.
It was a rare occasion where the tidies were in contempt and filled with truculent rapture.
The tides of rapture derived from anger, pain, and lies drenched with hibiscus lilies.
The sun plowed the pavement as it emerged from flesh that swamped the earth’s depth and death.
It was a state of death in the making, and we all were parishioners invited to the burial.
A burial soaked the room as the bodies warped the minds of the deceased. The feeling felt like the mellow dew that invades your spirit when looking for the images of truth and reconciliation.
We passed through like the well-manicured lawns that we get enchanted by when we want to pretend to live an affluent life. Still, beyond the twilight and sprinklers racing for air, they are bodies lying on the floor waiting to be resurrected from the pills and alcohol consumption that they drown from after raping and blundering an immigrant for their pleasures.
The alluring pleasure is a keepsake tucked neatly in the cabin when it needs to be displayed for dinner with friends. Bodies are numbers and not appreciated because I have a number on speed dial.
Copyright © 2021 by Sherley Delia. All rights reserved.
Healing Majestically 