Fig Branch Out

Chaos is a staircase. Composed hesitantly with cement and fragments of limestones. Thinly clad remnants of a collection of pasts constructed, imaginary, just as real but not really.

There floats a fish in a gelatin ponds made of decaying gels of waterlilies. That was a lovely fish.

It used to glide pass the borderland between water and more water, and feather and fester, like angel hairs with silver needles. Needless to repose ever further.

There's a remnant of a whisper that breaks the day, just like any other nights. Thinly veiled forgotten dreams, realistic illusions and pretty lores.

Trapped in the tendrils of lace vines and crystallized patterns of florals. Same old dials, how so once more.

The clockwork has broken; the clockworks was never truly fixed.

That much metal strings would only hurt your hands, why does it still matter. Pace yourself to be nominally cruel.

When I gaze back at the Abyss, it patiently awaits.

05. 2021.

By Aran Meredith

“Every day is pay day”.