The swollen gland presenting as a chunk of wood lodged in my throat refusing to be swallowed makes it impossible to chuckle at Easter snow in the flatlands. April weather in March fares on the ticket of ridiculous and global warming.
Wading through air like molasses – another sensation created by viral intruders – everything happens too slowly. Who pushed slow motion? Puddles of sea-like magnitude open up before my feet. Not only did it snow, it rained as well, how does that work? Urban obstacles, of course. In the country you go ‘round, in the city you have to wade through or get run over by traffic. A sigh and a coughing fit carry me across.
Impressions and imprints you made quickly fade now. I am like good dough, if you don’t keep impressing and imprinting, I return to my original state.
After all these years I still use varied metaphors I borrowed from a single source. In my defense, I also bake a lot, dough is on my mind.
I whisper a soft goodbye to the last coins I fished from my pocket, now spent to deliver chocolate love to the world. Chocolate insanity is more like it. Must have been viral madness even back then. But remembering my holy word I couldn’t bear the guilt of bailing out now.
Backwards the molasses has turned to jell-o and the sickness of the town – cars – aggravates the sickness of me.
When pillows are softer than you can bear and bring back memories of skin, it’s best to avoid resting your head in them.
My cottoned ears drown out the sounds you make. Better for it, they were lies anyway.
"I can be quiet. Wish you could hear me."