Written thoughts explain everything.
From the depths of your lies to the roots that they own and take hold in under all that dirt.
Roots made of evil unless of course they’re light.
White lies mean no harm.
So I inflict them and at the end of it all I’ve unleashed a splash of tongue gashes and atrocities.
Full of rocks and dirt. The way the Earth tastes after a storm or summer shower. So alive and quiet but you can still smell the worst of it. Soaked and serene, sweat and tears. Both from trying to keep the roots underground and the way she takes the force. Running through the misty meadow as the sky bellows and sun slams the Earth. Hazy words with nothing of worth but so selectively picked to be planted and kept fertile. Weeds growing something native for far too long. Landscape and snapshots with backdrops to African drums.
Fires couldn’t even dry this field of cold-hearted desert.
Yet showers once again roll through and fall like feathers, upon your treasure and upon her heartache, entangled in your web of saliva spool, bitten tongues and the truth of fools.
Never to be stumbled on or accidentally found.
Another work written in Central African Art history class during my spring semester. This one is about keeping those secrets and lies hidden in a place only you can visit.