twine. driftwood. and bones.
twine.
knotted chord & twisted
it chokes –
lynching
hanging
sliping and stretching the chaos erecting a violent condemnation of the life’s perfect lie all the while necks are bound and spirits consumed by the strangulating gagging of the lies that isn’t.
driftwood.
turned disheveled & hewn
it floats –
scrapes
burns
embers escape the soaked and saturated gagging drowning both alight and quenched, two perfect dualities simultaneously retching, convulsing violently, reacting to the loss that isn’t, the life that wasn’t.
bones.
broken and excised, evicted
they scream –
hollow
echo
crows caw and scream their violent disapproval then implode in cacophonies of sound, searching, for this not quite death, this dying, this night terror – all while devouring this life and it’s, is to be.
the spirits sing out
the spirits cry out
the spirits bare witness
to the twine and it’s sliding
to the wood and it’s cracking
to the bones and their snapping.
all muffled echoes
of the perfect
what was
not
to
be
by v. t. holmes written upon the death
of a potential reality that ultimately
was not to be.