Cork. He is the very proof of altered life. With his stiff sword and heavy earthenware, he travels Earth searching for women to see, to reach and make aware of their strife. Gathering their pain and sorrow within one of his many bowls, he gently swishes the melodious form of their wealth as though they were verbal clouds of auric stream, a river of glistening lustre, something realised to have been quite important. Their blockages have been released.
And now it is my turn.
A dangerous striping, hereby an earning of my stripes, I sing to distract myself from the abysmal reality which is before me: is Cork here positively for me? Or as the dark omen which I expect to see?
Movements and gestures, Cork will and does take, his rigid sword capable of dragging itself through practically any surface: wooden, metal, or concrete. The only type of surface it cannot slice through, a fact that true record keeping for this is: your heart, dear. This beats and breathes and breathes and beats, with my lungs which continue to heave. Like a light-hearted, soaring being I now faint, dizzy with the exacerbation upon my page, my heart is protected by a strange love from within.
Cork will be here upon my awakening; he will attend to me.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by azboomer from Pixabay
Return to All Posts