Lead Poisoning
It was September and my puerile wings had just rummaged around the occult corners of the earth. Beyond were layers that promised me they were of capability had I chose to reside inside. It was of prominent notice that the clouds might molt and the lavender petals never to blossom again. I transgressed my doctrines and imagined the breaking of those corners as a ballad of revival.
However, my psyche of no affiliation feared the uncanny association to one master. Objections, disputes, wonders of no end and no beginning took place before my longest hair strand did. It was said that the corners of the earth were powerful yet duplicitous; that if I leaned too forward towards the edges, each fragment would splinter, and before I stand before it to blame, my soul will abandon its body.
This impetuous vulnerability could neither perforate my comprehension nor quench the parched, newly cut-out-of-the-womb soil I have been harvesting. I had followed the chronicle of a merciless seiner of a thin-layered earthly creation, whose servants’ eyes were only to be reflected by this sole orb’s moon and sun. He who drew blood to create could not find faith in his creation, so he ordered a heavenly throne and abandoned all.
A throne, that, if the cosmos were to fall ill, would heal itself, shield itself from the created ordeals of the world. A throne to be conquered by one; made to a silky, tyrian purple, ultramarine blue, and vermillion red. It would create a sphere for both the inhabitant and the habitat itself. The rest, as it seems, would clutch their rosaries harder and sing in the form of prayers.
The truth about this infection and its transmitter is the nonexistent loyalty and liability they must hold for each other. If this born tree is of fruitless labor, then its space is wasted. But how much space does space need to be enough? And isn’t the greatest keeper of the most divided of spaces our master of the heaven?
I stood firm as I spoke of an ill connection, a connection severed the moment the chord was cut. Or perhaps, the moment the seed had been planted.
As my tongue conveyed the presence of a burning forest, the corners of the earth, which were once emerald and tangelo, found themselves a rotting attic to subdue their vibrancy. The very state of resonance was a sin to be looked down upon, essentially penalized for the nature of their creation.
I had touched the stone and suddenly it breathed confinement into the soul that had just learnt how to walk under a moonless night. My hands could not quiver, for a false shimmer took place and could not depart from the clay that is me. ‘Alas,’ it spoke. I wished it had learnt to polish itself before attaining a despicable parlance against me.
My fingers, velvet and mellow, were still in the stage of potential peculiar imprints had a garden’s thorns decided to impale me. My flesh, caped by nothing but blank air, surrendered to the infiltrating holes the edges conspired to use against me. This solitary orphan turned into a sphere of plums and blood lime. I was covered by the nexus of the shelter of supposed worship and benignity.
All it took was an imponderable question. I knew; however, the outcome of such wonder should never be of revelation to mortals, hence the retribution to one and all. It was not just my body that was wrenched, it was the black sea that wooed the sailing path of my day, it was the promising hole beneath my boat of refuge that swore to devour a most decent meal. Nothing was of beauty anymore.
An odious laughter in the form of derision. My legacy perished before grasping a solid ground to commence. I could not shriek for the color imprisoning me, draining my red blood into a sterile grey, forbade any thunder from passing through. It was the end of all things; it was the beginning of God.
My form could not escape for another took over. One last look, I scrutinized the sky for it was all that was left of me: achromatic sight. I knew that when I first gazed at the light, it carried all colors of perception to me. Now, however, it has become utterly devious of what I had known of it. The angels, too, did not bear white wings or golden halos- they were ash, they were smoke. These senseless creatures held their feathers and parchments to write. Their master had declared, on his congenial bed, that this tiny structured body had met its demise because of lead poisoning.
