Melancholy is too easy.
I ground in beauty and magic.
The world rattles bones and stone atop tremors of rage.
Sporadic moments between cars yielding angry voices and gestures.
Banners, bumper stickers, flags, and slogans clawing for dominance with declarations of fealty to ghosts and goblins of perceived superiority. Countries fill with quiet voices turning to screams of bewilderment and sorrow and the world fills with the aftermath of humans creating their reality of righteousness through force.
Those who know nothing personally, suddenly know everything certainly. They search for a flag. And new fissures open in the thin crust of a small rock that circles a sun in an unknowable void.
Melancholy is too easy. I ground in beauty and magic if I can. Melancholy kicks the back of my skull feeding on the tremors of my bone. I starve it by feeding it good things. Wild monk and Senegal parrots feasting in our crepe myrtle filled to the top with drying seedpods. Crow and black birds calling. Ibis and stork mixing into drifts of white feathers clashing and yielding. Soft-souled dove foraging for the littlest things. Their soft-souled coos find their way through the galley of feasting flocks. Is this me being able to hear? Or them, being able to be heard?
